


And In Your Hole You Made Me Whole

by Heyerette



Series: To Be Whole [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fluff, M/M, Romance, and Bilbo has to deal with it, in which Thorin is the first to arrive at Bag End
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-20
Updated: 2014-02-06
Packaged: 2018-01-09 10:57:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1145146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heyerette/pseuds/Heyerette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Dwarves? What – <i>no</i>! What would I be doing with <i>dwarves</i>?!”</p><p>Really, Bilbo thought. Not that his hobbit hole did not boast of a considerable size and quite a number of well furnished rooms – and strategically placed cupboards – but if Bilbo should consider hiding anything in them it would be his beloved books. And prized maps. And possibly his silver. Well, Sackville-Bagginses and all that. But - <i>dwarves </i>?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Unexpected Arrival

**Author's Note:**

  * For [authoressjean](https://archiveofourown.org/users/authoressjean/gifts).



> Uhm, yes. I said ... things, when posting TPOTP. You can go and blame this on authoressjean. I do. And am also gifting it to you for being you. *smishes*
> 
> If you should be clicking on this having read TPOTP - thank you! I was really overwhelmed by the positive feedback and all the kudos and bookmarks. I still don´t think I´m a writer, really, but I hope this will be of similar fun to you. My aim is to make this a two-part story but it may be 3 parts in the end, depending on how much all the company will have to say for themselves. Eventually. This is what happens when a bunny starts hopping around you while you´re at work and assures you it is a very good notion to have Thorin arrive at Bag End... first.

~ ~ ~ ~

Well would you look at that?

That was a bit – unsanitary. 

Yes.

Although the dwarf had obviously – very, _very_ long-grey-streaked-pitch-black-soon-to-be-leaving-a-puddle-on-the-wooden-floor-mane- obviously – just recently taken a bath. _Very_ recently. 

And – the respectable Baggins side in the hobbit decided now would be a very good time to blush – very, _very_ clearly omitted to -

Bilbo squeezed his eyes firmly shut and took a deep, fortifying breath. And then another. Just to be on... you know. In case, well, you know. 

Once he felt ready to ascertain certain facts; if he was very lucky the situation could simply be blamed on the nightcap he had indulged in earlier, after all why on - 

Nope.

Still there.

_Oh Eru!_

There was a half-naked dwarf sitting at his kitchen table.

Bilbo Baggins had a half-naked dwarf sitting at his kitchen table.

A half-naked dwarf that was – asleep. With his head resting on said kitchen table. And with his mouth slightly open.

Well! Small hands went onto hips.

How rude, really!

And not even remotely endearing, Bilbo was quick to assure himself. No. Not at all. Thank you very much!

And the hobbit most certainly did not experience any twitch in his fingers that could, by any impartial observer, be interpreted as an inclination to – touch. Nope. It´s just that - 

He would have to touch the dwarf, wouldn´t he. Since the dwarf was stubbornly refusing to show any awareness of having been addressed. And he could not let him sleep at his table. On his table. His bed would be so much more -

Oh, this was all Gandalf´s fault.

Dratted wizard!

~ ~ ~ ~

Bilbo Baggins had been minding his own business – which had consisted of quite a generous arrangement of still warm scones, strawberry jam, freshly clotted cream as well as a happy assortment of various little triangle sandwiches with the crust cut off, to be washed down with his favourite blend of tea – when there had been a firm thump of a knock on the door. Followed by another. And then another.

The hobbit had not been experiencing an especially sociable mood – if you had to deal with the likes of Lobelia Sackville-Baggins and their inexplicable addictions to your silver spoons and thinly veiled aspirations on your smial on a lately bi-daily basis you would be sorely tempted to cast your hospitality and respectability aside, too! - and did not appreciate being interrupted in savouring the last morsel of a particularly appetising egg and cress sandwich mid-bite.

~ ~ ~ ~

The sandwich dropped onto the plate.

That – that dratted, _confounded_ \- if she thought to find him in any way more movable if confronted by her loving sponge of a husband Bilbo would be very happy to teach her that his big, furry feet had very much rock-like tendencies if repeatedly driven to complete and utter distraction. And distraction this was. Of the worst kind. You did not keep a hobbit from his meal. Really now - 

The exasperated hobbit mumbled decidedly un-hobbitish curses under his breath while marching over to the round, green door and lunged to wrench the same open, an expression of extreme irritation on his normally patient face.

“ _Otho Sackville-Bag_ \- oh dear.”

~ ~ ~ ~

Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain, son of Thror, King under the Mountain, was, if one may be so bold as to permit oneself a verdict on the state of mind of that royal, noble dwarf, in a crabby mood.

He had been travelling for weeks and had stoically endured the sheer endless, mundane outpourings of nobles and leaders of all seven dwarven kingdoms alike, congratulating himself on restraining his temper so far so as to not cause a raging war among kin and allies – he could just hear Balin´s insistently disapproving voice in the back of his head informing his King that breaking Lord Narin´s nose would be somewhat impolitic if he should be hoping for the support of the Ruler of the White Mountains; Lord Holdin was strangely fond of his only son – only to now finding himself wandering amongst rolling, annoyingly hilly hills in search of a mark on a green door. Amongst all that – green. To meet up with his Company. Which were to be his only company on the quest to retake Erebor. Apart from their – _burglar_. 

The exiled king´s grimace could be likened to that of those so unfortunate as to have swallowed a lemon. 

He should have seen to Narin´s fingers, too.

~ ~ ~ ~

“Dwarves? What – _no_! What would I be doing with _dwarves_?!”

Really, Bilbo thought. Not that his hobbit hole did not boast of a considerable size and quite a number of well furnished rooms – and strategically placed cupboards – but if Bilbo should consider hiding anything in them it would be his beloved books. And prized maps. And possibly his silver. Well, Sackville-Bagginses and all that. But - _dwarves_? 

Although – if all dwarves looked like the one currently looming over him in his doorway, his arms holding fast to both sides of the door, an expression of extreme impatience on his face - 

“My company, halfling”, the impatient dwarf practically growled out, interrupting the hobbit´s wandering train of thought. “My nephews. Where are they?”

Nephews? Oh dear. Bilbo´s hobbit-instincts immediately jumped to attention. There might be _children_ lost somewhere in the Shire! On one of the coldest days this spring and – that was decided. 

He reached for his coat, hastened to shrug himself into the warm, woolly protection against the elements and looked up at the dwarf meaningfully as the great bulk of the same showed no inclination to move, his unexpected visitor simply continuing to glare at him in irritation.

Right. Time to be delicate then. Bilbo made as if to duck underneath a fur-coated arm and - surely this dwarf must be very worried for his kin and that would also explain his rather rude - 

“Where do you think you are going, hobbit?”

The hobbit startled, eyes flying down to the hand that had clamped down onto his wrist. Oh, but those were quite thick fingers, weren´t they -

Never mind the fingers now and the not quite so pleasant grip - he would be very cross if there should be a bruise, of course, but dwarves probably did not realise that hobbits were a little more delicate than their clearly sturdier race. And the dwarf before him was just that. Sturdy. Massive. Quite tall. Quite lovely, really. And angry. And in possession of icy blue eyes that were presently fixed on him in a hard, unrelenting stare.

Now, _really_ – Bilbo was getting a little vexed about being bossed around in his own home. Or almost in it. Given the dwarf had yet to cross the threshold. Which he hadn´t been invited to do, yes. But then, he had also not been invited to descend upon unsuspecting hobbits who were happily sipping their by then surely lukewarm tea and not in the least mood for _company_. 

And what did he mean _company_? What would he do with a _company_? Bilbo was quite satisfied to be his only company, thank you very much. His only _company_ in the _company_ of his books and on his armchair and in his garden and … And if he _did_ get a little lonely here and there he was certainly not going to discuss the matter with a strange dwarf that …

Was still fixing him with that glare. 

Yes, and if he insisted on glaring at his _company_ like that all the time then the hobbit considered it far from wonder that he seemed to have misplaced said _company_. The poor children probably – oh. Right.

Bilbo cleared his throat and pointedly looked down at where his wrist was still firmly enclosed by those thick fingers before looking up at the dwarf again. 

Who did not seem inclined to remove them. 

The hobbit huffed a little.

“ _Do_ you mind?” 

“I will not release you before you have answered my question, hobbit!”, was practically snarled at him in return. 

Obstinate. Rude and – _obstinate_. Clearly they were running around in circles. While the children were still running around - 

“Oh never mind that now!” Bilbo wrenched his arm free and waved one of his hands in dismissal. “We will never find those poor children if you insist on being a stubborn ... Now -” The hobbit made to pass the dwarf and squinted out into the fading daylight. “Where did you last see them?” 

“Excuse me?”

Yavanna grant him patience! 

“The children, Master Dwarf. _Your_ children.”

“My _what_?!”

The dwarf, upon closer inspection, appeared momentarily stunned. If the hobbit had been a little better acquainted with his unexpected guest he might have felt no small amount of pride in being able to reduce such a stoic being to that very rare state. As he could not claim to be even a little acquainted with him, he merely surmised that either exhaustion, confusion or a little slowness must come into it. Probably the latter. Which was a pity. But never mind that now – 

“Yes! The children you came here to look for? The children who are currently out there –“ Bilbo waved both his hands towards the roaming hills and homes of his fellow hobbits as if to helpfully point out the obvious - ”Very likely cold and scared and hungry and I am very sorry to be rude; I _do_ realise they are _your_ nephews, but I am a _Baggins_ and a _Baggins_ does _not_ stay inside his cosy hole waiting for missing little children to show up on their own when he can _search_ for them and find them and look after them and warm them up so that they will not catch a cold due to this weather and feed them hot soup and maybe draw them a bath and then put them to bed and tell them a stor -”

“Burglar.” 

Bilbo, who had been rapidly running out of breath while rattling on about what he was going to do to the unaccounted-for dwarflings – how many would there be, he wondered? At least two, of course. The dwarf having mentioned nephews and all that. But if they were to go by hobbit standards – did dwarves have numerous offspring? He would have to read up on that. Once they had found the little ones. And he had his hobbit hole to himself again - stopped short at the rumbled appellation, flushing a little as he became aware of how he had gone on, well, and the intense gaze that rested on him.

“Uhm - yes?” 

“My nephews”, the dwarf supplied evenly.

The hobbit found himself shuffling his feet, self-consciousness suddenly creeping up on him. Those incredible eyes were really very, very blue. 

“Yes?”

“They are grown.”

~ ~ ~ ~

Bilbo was left to gape after his visitor who had turned on his booted heel and was currently making his way into Bag End.

Right, the hobbit thought. That was a little embarrassing. And he had rambled on like a -

Wait. 

_Burglar_?

~ ~ ~ ~

An owl.

And it had blinked at him. 

Repeatedly.

Slowly.

And Thorin had wanted to pluck it. 

Upon sight.

And not because it had perched imperiously on the windowsill of an impractically round window. And certainly not because he had an inborn mistrust of anything so disreputably still and alert and – and cuddly - the dwarf king had grimaced in disgust at his own thoughts – no. 

He had felt a sudden, predominating urge to rid the cosy little smial of the creature because -

It would be distracting the hobbit. 

The hobbit that had followed the dwarf into the smial with exclamations of “Wait!” and “Excuse me!” and “Now see here -!” and “Oh _will_ you just -!”, and had quickly spotted the feathered _thing_ and -

Had halted abruptly.

~ ~ ~ ~

The dwarf king found himself subjected to crossed arms, a glare that reminded him rather forcefully of Balin (when the older dwarf, in the position of his tutor, had caught the young prince at something he perhaps should not have been caught at, the disapproval clearly written on his face and not much hidden by the even then impressive beard) and the rather speaking tapping of one large, hairy foot.

He felt strangely defensive. 

“What?”

The hobbit merely pointed towards the open window with one hand. 

The hobbit pointed at the owl.

The hobbit had to be joking.

~ ~ ~ ~

“You – you, _dwarf_!”

Bilbo was ready to indulge in an apoplexy. Or at the very least pull at his own hair. That – that _dwarf_! 

He should never have risen from his bed that day. He should have camped out in his bedroom with a book and under his lovely blanket and with no possibilities whatsoever of any kin or neighbour or dwarf or owl – oh. Yes. That. And food might have been a problem. And - 

The owl.

Right.

Because it wasn´t enough that a strange, entirely common sense-deprived _dwarf_ \- and Bilbo was very much aware he was repeating himself, thank you, but what in the name of Yavanna should he be doing with _dwarves_! - had chosen to practically burst into his hobbit hole; no, now there was also that winged, feathered Something which was blinking rather, well, owlishly at him from its spot on the windowsill and Bilbo Baggins was quite, really, absolutely fully certain that it was somehow connected to said dwarf. And Bilbo Baggins was not particularly fond of winged, feathered creatures. Now, if he had brought a cat to Bag End...

Bilbo quite liked cats. Cats were beautiful. Cats had personalities. There had been that one black, majestic cat with the grey whiskers and the temper of a - 

Though he supposed the owl was rather cute. For an owl. And fluffy. And soft. Fluffily soft. Maybe he should edge closer to it and hold out a hand and -

And it was _hooting_ at him?

~ ~ ~ ~

No.

No, no, no.

Nope.

Definitely not happening.

No.

The dwarf could take his nephews and his company and his contract and his map and his dragon and -

He was a respectable hobbit and respectable hobbits did not go on any quests. In fact, they stayed as close as possible to their lovely, little hobbit holes all their lives and if some were so adventurous as to journey to such exotic places as Bree, well that was their very own affair and Bilbo wished them happy travels. 

And the same went for dwarves and their unnervingly overbearing kings. If they had the intention of marching off towards a lonely mountain or other to meet their untimely ends as flambé à la dragon then by all means, Bilbo Baggins would not stop them. Although – he peaked out from behind the hands that were presently covering his face (which was a great improvement to them flailing about wildly, or so the hobbit thought) – it would be a high shame in the case of one such currently very irate example. 

The hobbit had _eyes_ , thank you very much. 

And those eyes had the questionable honour of witnessing Thorin Oakenshield – the dwarf had, eventually, and with the air of one goaded beyond endurance (Bilbo was beginning to conjecture that _cantankerous_ may also be an expression frequently attributed to His Majesty) introduced himself – King of Erebor, King under the Mountain, and determined to regain his home and his gold from the great dragon Smaug, pacing up and down within the confines of his lovely kitchen. While the hobbit himself had eventually taken to gently stroking the feathery messenger. Well, there was not much he could do about that but he was a hobbit and as such there was that other thing that he could do. 

Well then.

“Uhm... Tea?”

~ ~ ~ ~

Mahal.

If that curly-haired, short, fussing, entirely too easily excitable halfling was going to be their burglar they were going to be in trouble.

 _Thorin_ was going to be in trouble.

Big trouble.

Because - 

Durin´s beard – _what_ was the hobbit doing _now_?

The King, interrupted in his silently grumbling misgivings, squinted, then narrowed his eyes in acute displeasure.

Was he petting the owl?

He was petting the owl.

And the confounded creature gave every appearance of approving the gentle, stroking motion on its snow-white feathers, actually _leaning_ its fluffy head into the hobbit´s small hand. 

Thorin took it as a personal insult to his kingly dignity that the wizard had elected to employ _that_ instead of at least having the common courtesy to use a raven. 

He huffed at his own reminder and proceeded to slowly and firmly flatten out the piece of parchment on the wooden table in the ridiculously homely kitchen; which he had taken great pleasure reshaping into a wrinkled ball of barely legible letters. His fist still basked in the glory of the moment.

~ ~ ~ ~

„Tea.“

„Yes.”

The dark brow furrowed further.

„You wish me to have tea.“

“Well – not wish, exactly, perhaps, but uhm – ” 

Bilbo found himself slightly flustered. It was just tea, wasn´t it? And quite a nice, strong, soothing blend, or so he had always thought himself. No need for the dwarf to look at him as if he had been threatening him with slow, deliberate torture. Or was he breaking a big, secret dwarven taboo by offering his guest a cup of the hot brew? Maybe it was the dainty decoration that offended his tender sensibilities? Well, in that case the dwarf would just have to suffer through it and not be a ninny about it. He shuddered to think what his nephews would be like if their kingly uncle turned up his nose at a few delicately painted flowers. And he had brought out his mother´s favourite set, too!

Honestly.

“Would your majesty prefer the raspberry kind? Or I should have some camomile somewhere –“ The hobbit began to rummage about in the cupboard. And if there was a slight huffiness in his tone he did not care if the dwarf noticed. Much. “If your majesty has a preference for the more bland. Or perhaps the blackberry - ”

“Thorin.”

The hobbit nearly squeaked in surprise at the one-worded exclamation, almost dropping the tin of tea leaves he had just unearthed from the far back of a shelf. Clutching the same to himself protectively – or was it the tin that was going to protect him? - he turned slowly. 

To find that disconcertingly blue gaze focused on his person again. Really, much more of this and his poor knees would turn into jelly. And he could not possibly give in to that progressively strong inclination and sit down for a while – or two - because apparently, he had more guests to expect. More – dwarves. A whole lot of them. A company. Of them. And - Oh. His current dwarf seemed to be expecting an answer. Uhm -

“Excuse me?”

“Thorin.” The dwarf let his eyes travel over the smaller being for a moment and then, following an abrupt nod, marched out of the kitchen, leaving the bemused hobbit behind with a curt -

“Black is acceptable.”

Well, Bilbo thought, biting his lip. Not the sweet kind then.

~ ~ ~ ~

Dwalin would call it mooning.

Balin would call it nothing but would smile knowingly and possibly encouragingly at him from underneath his bushy brows.

His nephews, if he should not manage to glower at them swiftly enough for them to promptly reconsider their impudence, would refer to it as un-Uncle Thorin-ish moping.

And Dis - 

Dis would reach up and whack him on the back of his head and if he should as much as even minimally protest at her treatment of his kingly person she would repeat the action without hesitation. And with more vehemence.

Thorin snorted and returned to polishing his weapon with renewed vigour.

Not that there was much more for him to occupy himself with. But for waiting for his company to finally arrive and for mop-

He was cursed. Cursed with interfering, meddlesome wizards; cursed with entirely too slow kin and subjects – he would take a mental note of their unacceptable failings when it came to travelling speed when left to their own devices just so that they would reclaim Erebor within the next eon or so; cursed with finding himself cooped up with a ridiculously fussy, impossibly cute _halfling_ for his reluctant, if tenaciously polite, host. 

The king had scowled at him, raised his voice to him, had practically manhandled the little creature on his own doorstep and - 

The hobbit offered him tea.

Tea.

Thorin briefly considered putting and end to his miserable existence by stabbing himself with one of the inconceivably hard – what was it his host had called them? Some sort of short _bread_? If that had been bread the dwarf positively longed for the sponge-like concoction his younger nephew had once conjured up when entirely convinced his youthful talents lay on the culinary front. At least it could be dunked into soup. And Kili had taken to the bow quickly after and Thorin had been too relieved to have averted one disaster to even properly consider the implications of that newest endeavour – sticks the hobbit had presented with the steaming cup of liquid, smiling encouragingly down at him when he had eyed the same in some bafflement.

Oh _Mahal_.

The dwarf had no time for – he was not even going to dignify that _this_ with a proper appellation. He had a company to lead. Nephews to keep an eye on (His subconscious cheekily supplied the suggestion that The Hobbit would be very well served with the tiresome task of seeing to the two menaces. And – it further informed its king – very likely excel at the monumental task. He _would_ be one to be good with children, Thorin briefly pondered, drumming his fingers on the hilt of his sword. See to their being fed and kept warm and dry and away from harm and – and out of _mischief _... Yes, that. Thorin mustn´t forget the mischief.) A map to read. Directions to... discuss. (He was _not_ prone to getting lost, whatever anyone may have alluded to.) Then there was the small matter of ridding his mountain of the worm. __

He was King. He had a duty. And a purpose. He had just travelled across half of Middle Earth for said purpose. 

No matter how adorable the hobbit was with his golden curls and smooth, plump cheeks and his flailing hands and his general fidgetiness and his _smile_ and -

But he would not come.

The king was certain the small being had been close to fainting upon learning he was expected to steal from a dragon. It had only been his no small amount of indignation at being “ _very much mistaken for a burglar, thank you very much!_ ” and his even greater outrage at that “ _meddlesome wizard having the effrontery to not only fill his hobbit hole with what could very well have been unsavoury characters which could have had every intention of raiding his poor pantry and to dance on his table!_ ” but to also “ _have the impudence to attempt to make him go on a bloody adventure!_ ” (which seemed to have been the greatest of all offences. All of them considered.) which had kept the halfling from prostrating himself on the wooden floor.

Thorin had taken to pacing the kitchen lest he should give in to the pressing temptation that was to seize the fuming little creature by the front of his colourful waistcoat and silence all of his protests. Effectively. With his mouth.

And then the blasted hobbit had offered the blasted tea and had started to Your Majesty-ing him and the king had learned he could only resist so much and had beaten a hasty retreat. Awaiting his _tea_ in what appeared to be the sitting room. While seeing to his axe. And his sword. 

Glowering at – well, the room. His displeasure had just passed one of the windows and - 

The dwarf dropped his sword. 

Mahal _fucking_ wept. 


	2. Let it Snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is dinner. And a flustered hobbit. And a courting-challenged dwarf king. And did I mention the snow?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here, have more than 4000 words of decidedly shameless Bagginshield fluff. To think that this was supposed to be a two-parter...
> 
> ~ ~ ~ ~

“Hobbit.”

Bilbo paused in his chopping. Now _what_ now? He was almost certain he did not wish to be acquainted with the _what_ because _whats_ that came together with dark, angry voices rarely turned out to be _whats_ which Bilbo cared to know about. But ignoring that particular _what_ would be rude and he had promised himself he would be a proper host for as long as it took his dwarf – oh, no, no, no; not _his_. Or rather – yes. His. His guest. Dwarf guest. Quite. Good. Yes. - and the ones that were yet to descend upon Bag End to discuss whatever needed to be discussed (which would most certainly _not_ be his participation as a _burglar_ , thank you very much) before they set off on their hair-raising – and that was probably quite a lot of hair that would be raised, Bilbo mused to himself, a little appreciatively... the king´s hair was really quite – adventure. And while he was going to be a proper, welcoming hobbit-host he was going to grab the wizard by the hem of his robe and drag him into an unoccupied part of his hobbit hole and he was going to have words with him. Oh, he was going to have _words_ with him. The dratted - 

Setting the bowl of potatoes aside, the hobbit wiped his hands on his apron and turned to face His Dwarf Guest with what he hoped to be an inviting, encouraging expression. 

And waited.

And - 

Waited.

Really.

 _Must_ the dwarf stare at him so? It was quite a respectable apron, thank you. And he happened to _like_ daises. And daffodils. And peonies. 

Bilbo lifted his chin a little, which seemed to put the dwarf in mind of his _what_. Or so the deepening of the scowl suggested.

“It is snowing.”

Oh. Snowing? It was snowing? He raised himself on his tiptoes so as to be able to peek across a pair of broad shoulders which were currently blocking his view of the kitchen window. 

It was snowing. Thick, fluffy, white, merry flakes. How lovely! Bilbo smiled. Oh, the dwarf appeared to be expecting an answer. Well. 

But was he to simply agree with him or to congratulate him on his powers of observation or invite him outside to build a snow-hobbit – or should that be a snow-dwarf; being the polite, hobbitish thing to do? He should have a carrot somewhere which might be fitting for a dwarf´s nose - with him and to then cuddle up in front of the fireplace with a steaming mug of hot chocolate (the one with his special, secret twist!) and to put his head into Bilbo´s lap so that the hobbit could ascertain the softness of that mane for himself and - 

Or maybe not.

Which left - 

“Uhm, yes?”

The dwarf narrowed his eyes. And if Bilbo had ever been faced with a clear accusation - 

“It is spring, halfling.”

Astounding powers, that was. And honestly, he had been gifted with a name. And he would quite like for that fact to be acknowledged.

“It´s Bilbo. Baggins. Bilbo Baggins. And -” Bilbo turned back to his assorted herbs and meats and potatoes , taking up the knife once again - “It has been known to happen in the Shire. And I think it is going to turn into a snowstorm, by the looks of it.”

He began chopping away on a juicy chunk of beef.

“That is not acceptable!”, the dwarf king practically snarled across the room, fully ignoring the hobbit´s pointed hint. “We need to leave! _I_ need to -” He had started his pacing again, growling unintelligible words in a strange, hard language that the hobbit had never heard before while clenching and unclenching his fists at his sides. 

Oh Yavanna, Bilbo was dealing with a fauntling. 

A fauntling that was about a head taller than him but definitely a fauntling.

He sincerely hoped the dwarf would not start to pout because if he were to take to pouting the hobbit would not be able to make any promises as to his – reaction. Those eyes were quite enough for one hobbit. Hm. He should probably not suggest that those eyes could perhaps be employed in snow-removal measures. Who knew, that glare might even inspire icy flakes into retreat. Or possibly melt them away? Right. The fauntling. Dwarfling. Fauntling dwarf. Dwarf fauntling. Who would soon be wearing his poor carpet out, with all that stomping around. Nasty business, boots were.

“I am very sorry, Master Dwarf, but, you know -” the hobbit had adopted a low, soothing tone which usually worked like a charm in his dealings with tragically heartbroken little hobbitlings and he supposed children were the same everywhere. Even if quite grown. “All those other dwarves cannot leave when they have not even arrived yet and you cannot leave before they arrive and they cannot arrive before this storm has passed and gone so you had much better sit down and have more tea while I see to dinner. Uhm -” the smaller being started rummaging again - “- there may even be more shortbread somewhere and if you dunk it into your -”

“Thorin.”

And there was that growl again. Dangerously low it was, too. Well. Bilbo really was getting a little fed up with being constantly growled at. And had that really been all that _exasperating_ dwarf had been listening to? 

He shut the cabinet door with a bang.

“Yes. You said. Here -” The hobbit ruthlessly pushed a half-full tin into his guest´s calloused hands and practically shooed him out of his kitchen. “Take this, sit down and I will bring your tea in a moment. And stop sulking! Your majesty.”

And he sincerely hoped that stung.

~ ~ ~ ~

Thorin was going to murder the wizard.

He was going to murder the wizard the moment the wizard should walk into the blasted hobbit hole. When he would be lowering his too tall body so that he would be able to duck through the round green door and thus generously enable the king to punch him in the face before sending him off to whatever halls infuriating, meddlesome wizards dwelt within after meeting their entirely deserved demise at the hands of long suffering dwarven kings. 

Balin could disapprove all he liked.

He would march to Erebor and face the beast wizard-less only for the pleasure of - 

Sulking!

Mahal, he wasn´t a dwarfling clinging to his amad´s apron string – 

Apron.

That - 

The king attacked his meat with unprecedented savageness, resolutely _not_ thinking about cute little hobbits with their frilly little aprons and their insolent, cheeky tongues and -

And that proved to be a smidgen of a problem.

Because one cute little hobbit was currently sitting at the kitchen table, facing him while devouring his dinner. 

Where did he even put all that food?

Dwarves were not unknown to enjoy their feasts but Thorin was quickly revising his opinions on his race´s consumption habits. That such a tiny, albeit comely creature could - 

“You eat a lot.”

The sound of cutlery clinking could very likely be heard in the neighbouring smials.

~ ~ ~ ~

“Seven."

Bilbo nodded, holding up his hand and beginning to count each of the very-much-necessary-thank-you-kindly meals off with a finger. 

“First breakfast, second breakfast -” Two. “Then there are elevenses, of course. And luncheon.” Four. “Afternoon tea, dinner - “Six. “And supper. Though I will understand if you wish to get an early rest after your journey, so you need not join me at supper if you´d rather -”

“You eat seven meals. Every day.”

“Uhm – yes?” Bilbo was a little confused that this should, well, confuse the dwarf. Seven was a perfectly adequate number. And if there should moreover be a party on certain days... well, yes. One could probably surmise that hobbits did eat rather a lot. But eating was a necessity. A pleasurable one but still a necessity. One could not very well permit oneself to starve! 

The hobbit took another spoonful of his meltingly delicious chocolate and raspberry concoction. Really, how could anyone _not_ -

“Dwarves don´t.”

“Hm?” Bilbo, having been in the process of licking off the last bit of sweet cream, met the dark stare slightly dreamily. Did that mean the king did not intend to finish his own? Was he saving room for the special hot chocolate the hobbit had decided to make after all, snow-dwarves or not? But he had not yet told him, had he, so - 

“There will be no more than three on the road.”

“Hm?” Oh, but that was really excellent chocolate. If he really did not mean to finish it – oh. What? No more than – ?! The hobbit´s tummy instantly protested in sympathy for the as yet unknown dwarves. And their grouchy leader. He was very cross with Gandalf, yes, and also quite, _quite_ cross with the stupidly handsome creature sitting at his table for, well, being so stupidly handsome, amongst other things, but he would go and investigate his pantry later to see what he could do about provisions to tide them over the first days at least. (The storm wasn´t quite as stormy at that point, even if still rather inclined towards the white particles that had caused a relapse into infancy in his dwarven guest earlier, so Bilbo felt reasonably certain they could expect the remaining company to arrive on the next day. Some time. Well, surely nobody would be trudging along in those nasty outside conditions. In the dark.) Only three meals! Honestly -

“Sandwiches!”

Now the dwarf was looking at him in complete bewilderment. It was quite a sweet look on him, really. And Bilbo was not at all charmed by the little crease that had appeared between the noble brows, no. So -

“For you. I mean, for all you dwarves. For the journey.” The hobbit put his chin in one hand, the attached arm resting on the table, his expression thoughtful. “And poppy-seed cakes, I think. They should keep for a few days, at least until you reach Bree. Small ones, and – Master Thorin?”

The hobbit could only blink as he heard the door to his home fall shut.

~ ~ ~ ~

During the course of his long life, Thorin Oakenshield had experienced various intense, conflicting emotions and even more various degrees of vexation. He had dealt with the aftermath of being driven from his home, had worked the forges of men, had curbed his resentment and ever present anger so that he would be able to feed and cloth his sister and her sons, fought in battles, suffered near unbearable loss and had been a leader to his people. Those acquainted with the king would swiftly confirm that he was not prone to questioning himself, that the opinions of those wholly unrelated to his person were of complete indifference to him and that he would have scoffed at the idea of being in any way interested in small, unprepossessing, completely sheltered, irritating, impertinent, inexplicably irresistible _halflings_.

Thorin wanted to bury his face in his hands.

He had even tentatively attempted to stir the hobbit towards signing the bloody contract. And the creature had remained stubbornly obtuse!

_Sandwiches_.

The dwarf growled.

Thorin wanted the hobbit.

Thorin wanted the hobbit on his quest.

Thorin was prepared to share his own rations with the hobbit if it should mean that the hobbit would be sitting close enough for the king to observe him furtively while sitting in front of the fire. Every night. Or he could watch over the hobbit while he slept. The hobbit would be cute while he slept. With his curly eyelashes and his cute little nose and -

He had taken to pacing in the storm; his long, grey-streaked mane turning increasingly white while exposed to the inhospitable outside conditions. And wet. As was his trusted fur coat. But he could not have the hobbit and so he would simply remain outside of the hobbit´s cosy hobbit hole and get even wetter and trace his own steps and plan what he was going to do to each and every member of his company – insolent sister-sons included – for failing to save him from his Mahal-cursed predicament. They had the effrontery to not even attempt to cross the hills and roads that were at least half-buried in the redundant white mass. They were going to suffer. The king´s lips turned briefly upwards at the pleasing prospect. And as for the hobbit - 

That had just collided with him. 

And was laying there, on his back, raised on his little elbows, glaring up at Thorin ominously.

The hobbit should be inside.

~ ~ ~ ~

Now that was quite enough of that.

Thorin Oakenshield may be a king but he was a king who was horribly rude and horribly pettish and who would catch a nasty cold if he did not come back inside that instant. 

Not that Bilbo was worried about the dwarf.

It was none of his business if he was going to suffer from frostbite or come down with a chest cold. 

But he was yanking his door open and dragging his body through a bloody snow storm because it was very much his business to let the stupid dwarf know that while it was none of his business he had made it his business and he was not going to let the dwarf be a child about whatever it was His Majesty had decided to be a child about and he would drag him in by a round ear if he must and -

Found himself in a little mountain of snow. 

On his back.

Well.

Wasn´t that just - 

The hobbit was livid.

~ ~ ~ ~

Bilbo was very much tempted to curl his fist into a well, fist. After filling it with quite a nice little helping of snow. Shaping it into something akin to a ball. And then do something quite unrespectably unhobbitish. Unless you were a very young hobbit and happened to be running around in the vicinity of the party tree with your equally young hobbit friends. And had your mother bundle you up appropriately beforehand.

But he wasn´t a very young hobbit any longer and his young hobbit friends were now quite grown and the party tree was quite a distance off and partial as he was to his lovely burgundy coloured waistcoat and new pair of trousers, they certainly could not pass off as anything even remotely suitable and - _and_ -

The hobbit scrambled to his feet, angrily brushing off the snow that clung to him, resolutely ignoring the rock-hard surface he had run into and which had caused him to fall back and land on his altogether too soft backside as far as such endeavours were concerned.

“I am so sorry, _Bilbo_ -” It had got into one of his pockets! “Let me help you up, _Bilbo_ -” Now, really – how did it get _under_ – he was going to have to change his shirt now - “I apologise for making you come outside in this weather, _Bilbo_! ” One hairy foot was shaken. “I did not mean to make you worry, _Bilbo_ -” _Bilbo_ bent down to inspect the other foot. “I am a big, big child and -”

“You should not be outside, halfling.”

Right.

That, that - 

The hobbit crossed his arms and favoured the owner of that surface (that he would not have minded finding himself not-strictly-bumping-into under different circumstances – much) with a glare that would have shaken a less resilient hobbit. Dwarf. Being.

“Well I would not be _outside_ if it were not for suicidal dwarf kings who clearly do _not_ remember that they will only be able to fulfil their _stupid_ death wishes and face a _stupid_ dragon should they manage to _not_ freeze to death before they even set out on their _stupid_ quests! And –“ The hobbit promptly turned on his dignified heel and marched back into the general direction of his green door, chin raised high - “That is all I have to say. Thank you. Now if your majesty would have the goodness of coming back inside -”

The round green door was left wide open. Pointedly.

~ ~ ~ ~

“You consider our quest foolish?”

~ ~ ~ ~

Bilbo squeaked.

“Thorin!”

He quickly covered his torso with the shirt he had just been about to dump into the laundry bin. Crumpled and all. 

Could the dwarf not have knocked? Or not have followed him to his bedroom at all? Well, yes, Bilbo should have closed the door but he had been in such a fury and had only wanted to get out of those wet things and change and - 

Seriously?

He was leaning against the door frame? With his arms crossed? Did Bilbo even want to know how long he had been standing there? Nope. Certainly not. No, thank you. But he did want him to just go away so that he could finish changing and will down the blush he could feel creeping up to the tip of his pointed ears and - 

He glared.

“ _Do_ you mind?”

One dark brow rose. 

“It is nothing that I have not seen before.”

The hobbit mumbled something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like _... probably fending the dwarven lasses off with a stick..._ and, with an audible huff and a roll of his eyes, recommended his guest to take off his own clothes.

The brow rose even higher. 

No. No, no, no, no, _no_.

He most certainly had not - 

“I mean not - _here_ , obviously, just, you know -” Bilbo gulped. “You´re wet. And – we should have a bath. And -” Oh Eru – _wait_! He narrowed his eyes suspiciously. Was the insufferable dwarf laughing at him? Right. Dignity. Bagginses did well with dignity. On dignity. So - “I will show you the guest room. And the bath. Just – wait for a moment. Outside. Please. Thank you.”

The flustered hobbit firmly shut the door after his guest, once the same had finally removed himself from its frame. Smirkingly.

Oh _bother_.

~ ~ ~ ~

And now Bilbo Baggins had a half-naked dwarf in his kitchen.

Sitting at his kitchen table.

Sleeping.

With his mouth slightly open.

Clearly Thorin – Bilbo supposed it was alright to actually _use_ his name at that stage; having been invited; well, it had actually sounded more like an order, come to think of it; to do so. Repeatedly. And with him having seen the dwarf king half-naked. And the dwarf king having seen his - yes, well. Best not go there again – had taken him up on his advice and had enjoyed a hot bath. Good. Yes. And had left his clothes somewhere to dry. Not... quite so good. Even if that towel was quite fetching around the surprisingly slim hips. From what Bilbo could tell. With the dwarf sitting down and all that. Yes.

_No!_

Oh bother, why was he continuously behaving like a tween around the blasted dwarf? It was not like Bilbo was ever going to see him again once he and his company had left the Shire.

And that did not bother the hobbit at all. Not. Nope.

He would just go and wake the dwarf and shove him off to bed (in the guest room, thank you kindly!) and then find his own bed again - with the glass of water he had come to get from his kitchen – and then _not_ dream about the lovely long hair or the piercing blue eyes or that deep rumble of a voice; no, he would be dreaming about the stubbornness and the rudeness and the -

Those were a lot of scars. 

And that one, the one entirely close to the heart, that long and thick and particularly nasty looking one - 

The hobbit barely restrained his unruly hand from gently running over the same. He huffed in frustration. He understood the need to reclaim their home, truly, he did; homes were very important to hobbits and Bilbo took great pride in Bag End and did not think he could bear to be parted from it, but to march off towards a mountain, all across Middle Earth, with only 12 other dwarves (yes, and a wizard, but who knew what that dratted wizard would get up to along the way; in view of the current predicament he had put the poor hobbit in!) in tow, in which a _dragon_ had taken up residence, a dragon which had not been seen in many years -

Bilbo ran the insubordinate hand over his tired, frustrated face. 

Oh confound it all! He was not burglar material, he hadn´t stolen an item in his life and he really, absolutely, most certainly had no interest whatsoever in adventures of any kind. None. Not at all. And mountains were dreadful, cold, dark places. What should a hobbit even _do_ in a mountain, if he were to even reach it? They could run into anything on their journey and Bilbo highly doubted his skill at conkers would help him when faced with whatever it was they could be facing. But maybe he could hide? Hm.

No, no, no; what was he even thinking – right. He needed to see to the king. Thorin. Who was still asleep. On his table. And half-naked. Still. 

The hobbit bravely reached out an uncertain hand to touch a naked shoulder, his fingers brushing against the mass of dark, still slightly wet hair.

“Thorin.” He prompted.

To no avail.

Bilbo applied the gentle pressure once more, raising his voice a little.

“Uhm ... Thorin?”

To the same avail.

That was a bit vexing. His table really wasn´t a suitable space for a nap. And the dwarf would feel it tomorrow. All over. Especially in his neck. And then be all grouchy again, the hobbit surmised; with surprising certainty for one who had only just made someone´s acquaintance a few hours earlier. And surely he must be getting cold and the quilt Bilbo had been thinking of covering his guest with would only slip from his really very nice shoulders at the slightest movement. Oh look! Well, at least there wouldn´t be any drool involved then. With his really very kissable mouth now closed and all that. 

Oh stop it, Baggins, you cannot molest the poor dwarf in his sleep! And if you did, Bilbo reminded himself vehemently; his guards would come after you and throw you into a nasty dungeon and rip out your big, furry toes one by one and then what would happen to Bag End and your garden and ...

And _stop_ stroking his hair, you stupid hobbit and – oh _Eru!_

The hobbit found himself staring into unfathomable blue eyes.

Well, at least he was awake now. 

Right.

Think, Baggins. Think.

Uhm...

“Would you like me to re-braid your hair?”

~ ~ ~ ~

He was going to be the death of him.

The hobbit was going to be the death of him.

The hobbit was going to kill Thorin and then his nephews would be in charge of the quest and Dwalin would murder them both before they even reached the Misty Mountains and Dain would be crowned king and - 

He was touching his hair.

The hobbit was touching his hair.

The hobbit was _stroking_ his hair.

Clearly Thorin had already died in his sleep because not only was the hobbit petting him, the hobbit also wanted to put his _braids_ in.

The hobbit had no sense of decorum – and even less respect for kings! - because first he stripped in front of him (the dwarf resolutely ignored the unkingly fact that was _him_ having followed the smaller being to what had clearly been the hobbit´s private chamber and _him_ having stood in the door in appreciative meditation before having reluctantly remembered to make his presence known), then he wanted Thorin to take off his own clothes and share a bath and _then_ he let him wake to the feeling of soft hands running through his tresses – the last person to have given him such gentle attention had been his mother more than a century ago – and then, when the king opened bleary, half-asleep eyes, he found himself looking up at a golden, curly-haired creature, with a pair of teasingly soft lips so very close, who was parading his form before him in a ludicrously enticingly patched excuse for a robe and then asked to _braid_ his _hair!_

And the hand was still there. In his hair. Even if frozen in its movement.

Hm.

Thorin tried to remember where he had left his beads. They would – the hobbit was talking?

“- and I am _so_ sorry, Thorin, I _really_ did not mean to -”

The burglar was going to kill him. 

“Enough!”

~ ~ ~ ~

“Hobbit.”

Bilbo gulped, having quite frozen at the bellow of a sharp command. 

Oh, but the dwarf really was quite tall. Even more so – well. All that clothing and armour and heavy - 

He lowered his eyes, his cheeks furiously red; thoroughly ashamed of himself and of how he had treated an unsuspecting, _sleeping_ guest and – and now the dwarf – Thorin – was surely going to rant at him and leave and it was still snowing and - 

“Bilbo.”

The hobbit´s eyes flew up. That was quite – soft? And - his cheek? Oh. There was a hand on his cheek. A big, calloused, gentle dwarven hand and the handsome face was definitely leaning in and - 

_Thump, thump, thump, thump, thump._

And that would be the door.

~ ~ ~ ~

“Dwalin. At your service.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the feedback, kudos and bookmarks! You all make me smile. I apologise for both the long sentence constructions (they are the bane of my existence) and any mistakes, which are all mine as this is un-betaed. And for those of you who aren´t aware of it yet - English is not my first language but I hope this isn´t reflected too much. 
> 
> And as for the chapter count - uhm, yes, well. I _think_ we´re looking at 4 parts now but don´t hold me to that, it all depends on how much certain characters will continue to sulk and babble and basically write themselves and what all the new arrivals will have to say for themselves. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy! :)


	3. Hairy Business

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo was torn between cursing the wizard for landing him in all this trouble and reaching over to wipe the dwarf´s mouth with a napkin. And see to the crumbs in the quite impressive beard, while he was at it. Honestly. If all dwarves had such table manners -

“Burglar stole ya clothes?”

~ ~ ~ ~

A pair of roguish eyes surveyed the king´s form, bushy brow twitching at the sight of the purple confection that adorned the other´s hips.

The arms that were folded suggested supreme indifference.

“ _What_ are you doing here?”

There was a smirk on the warrior´s face. 

“Lost ya braids, too.”

“Dwalin.”

The warning note should have served to discourage the most boisterous dwarf from indulging themselves in any frivolity; not so the former Captain of the Guard, who merely picked up his knife and began to clean his nails. 

“Ran into the wizard on the way, went on about your majesty already hobnobbing with the burglar; thought I should come and see whether your majesty needed protection.” Dwalin looked up from his hand and offered the king a blinding smile. Or as much of it as could be made out from behind an impressive beard and a thick moustache.

The arms refused to unfold.

“It´s snowing.”

“Aye”, the bald dwarf confirmed, inspecting the fruit of his work with interest. “Thought I´d freeze off my beard! Nasty storm, that; took all my charm to convince the pointy-hat to let me set out from the inn without hassle. Seemed to think you´d be quite cosy with the halfling here and had no need of company.” 

“I don´t”, the king informed his friend brutally. “What of the others?”

“Should be here on the morrow. If the wizard permits ´em. Mahal´s beard-” Dwalin then exclaimed, making a show of averting his gaze, “Put on some clothes! That´s enough of ya I need to see, having my supper.”

The king scowled darkly but eventually removed himself from the room to go in search of his apparel. And his burglar.

~ ~ ~ ~

Bilbo Baggins was stirring the stew as if his life depended on it.

Which it very likely did, Bilbo surmised. That had been – a lot of dwarf. A very bulky, bald, slightly-taller-than-the-other-dwarf, very-much-tattooed lot of dwarf. With an axe. And a hammer. Which the hobbit had got a quick glimpse of when the same dwarf had bowed to him in the door and had then stomped past him without so much as by-your-leave and -

Abruptly halted at the sight of the half-naked king.

And Bilbo had no idea why it had been _him_ who had been flushing up to the roots of his hair! _He_ had been wearing his perfectly respectable robe! But the king had merely raised a majestic brow – which would have done _things_ to his poor hobbit heart had his poor hobbit heart not already been very much affected by the _things_ that had or had not - the hobbit wasn´t that particular, really – happened around his kitchen table moments earlier – and then the dwarf (Falin? Brawlin?) had fixed his penetrating gaze on _him_ and had, quite rudely casually, really, given how the poor hobbit´s heart had been making little jumps in his chest, enquired where he might find his supper.

Supper!

Which Bilbo was now stirring. Vehemently. With dedication. Quite attentively, really. It might be the most stirred stew in the history of all stirred stews. And he was quite proud of the fact, thank you very much!

As long as he was stirring he would not have to go back to the sitting room and face - 

Should he perhaps cut some bread?

He supposed baking a fresh loaf would take things a little far, seeing it was past midnight, for one, but if he took time with his slices and saw to it that their sizes were perfectly matched...

Oh _bother_.

Right.

He was a _Baggins_ , in his own home and a hobbit on top of that and would simply _not_ think about _things_ he had very likely imagined as it was (what would a _king_ see in a mere hobbit, one who had, moreover, quite absolutely made up his mind to quite absolutely _not_ go on any quests whatsoever!); and be a good hobbit-host and feed his new dwarf and prepare another room for him and show him the bathroom and then run into his own room and lock his door behind him and fall into his bed and pull the cover over his head and not come out again for a fortnight. Yes. Good. Perfect.

“Master Baggins.”

The hobbit almost dropped his spoon.

~ ~ ~ ~

“ _Will_ you stop doing that!”

The huffy request was met with a blank expression.

“Do what?”

Bilbo, already in a mild state of panic and quite, quite sleep-deprived at that stage, did not take this relapse into idiocy well, or so his wildly flailing hands suggested.

“This!” The hobbit pointed his wooden spoon at the dwarf accusingly. Who was, thankfully – or at least his already quite ruffled feathers thought so and he was not feeling very much inclined to pay any heed to the more shallow ongoings currently making merry in his clearly befuddled mind – by then quite safely covered up by a loose tunic and trousers; even if his lovely feet – Bilbo found himself strangely drawn to their completely hairless state, they were almost dainty, weren´t they? – were bare. “ _Stop_ sneaking up on me! I am quite capable of turning my hair prematurely grey on my own. Without assistance. From you. Or anyone. Thank you.”

The disgruntled hobbit then turned back to the quietly simmering stew and, having every intention of ignoring the dwarf, attacked the same once more with renewed severity, mumbling something under his mulish breath that sounded strangely like _confounded dwarves!_ and _supper when self-respecting hobbits should be in bed!_ and _oh he would have so many words for the dratted wizard_ and -

And his spoon was gone.

And there was a hand covering his. A very dwarven hand. A very dwarven hand with those thick fingers that had been on his - 

And a thumb was stroking his knuckles and - 

“Go to bed, Master Baggins.”

~ ~ ~ ~

Now _that_ really _quite_ took the biscuit.

That rumble of a deep voice came in quite the soft variety, too!

~ ~ ~ ~

And so did his bed.

In which Bilbo should have stayed.

If he had any sense, of the hobbit-kind or otherwise. 

All day.

Preferably.

Or as long as it should take for all the dwarves to pack up their packs and their weapons and their provisions and their soft hair and their blue eyes and their rumbling voices and - 

But if he wanted that to happen he would have to actually _leave_ his bed so as to _see_ to said provisions and so Bilbo had, grumblingly, found his way out of his room and across the winding hall and into his kitchen where his very first, firm intention has been to put the kettle on and - 

“Mornin´.”

The hobbit´s eyes fell shut.

~ ~ ~ ~

On the plus side, Bilbo considered, he was not even remotely naked. Which was – good. He had had quite enough of dwarven nakedness to last him until the next Yuletide, thank you.

And if that was a little white lie he was not going to admit it. Ever. 

The dwarf that was sitting at his kitchen table was in his undershirt and braces, a chipped mug of what the thoroughly appalled hobbit, all other grievances momentarily forgotten, could only identify as mead in his tattooed hands.

Oh no, no, no; not if Bilbo could help it. He went straight for the mug.

“You can´t drink that!” 

The great, big paws reflexively tightened. 

“I can.”

The hobbit pulled a little harder.

“No you can´t. It´s, it´s – _unseemly!_ ”

Dwalin jumped from his seat, the chair he had been sitting on tumbling backwards.

“Now see here, lad -”, the tattooed dwarf began to expostulate. “Ta mead´s perfectly -”

“What – _no_!" Bilbo, the offending piece of crockery now quite safe in one hand – really, the dwarf called _that_ a mug? He would have to replace it. If only to save the dwarf´s dignity - waved the other small hand as if in dismissal. “But it´s _breakfast_! You can´t have _mead_ -” The hobbit sighed, adopting a resigned tone of voice. “Sit down. I´ll get you some tea.” He then began rummaging about in his cupboards. “Bacon, eggs, tomatoes … do you care for mushrooms?” The hobbit was favoured with an affronted look. “Right. Uhm – I don´t suppose Thorin will want -”

Bilbo had already turned his back towards his new dwarven visitor and therefore did not catch the two bushy brows that instantly went upwards.

~ ~ ~ ~

“You´re to be our burglar”, Dwalin grunted out somewhere between demolishing large chunks of bread and a third plate of fried bacon, tomatoes, sausages and eggs. Well, not so much the tomatoes; they seemed to offend the rough dwarf somehow and were resolutely kept to a far edge of said plate.

Breakfast had so far been a quiet, largely intimidating affair. The dwarf was even less forthcoming than his king and Bilbo, even though usually a meticulously polite and reasonably sociable host, found himself repeatedly wishing he could just magically shrink and crawl away, preferably to the room Thorin Oakenshield was still sleeping in – and wasn´t it entirely rude of the dwarf to still be abed at this hour! Covered up by Bilbo´s white, crisp sheets and with his black mane spilling across the pillows, or perhaps he had discarded the sheets and Bilbo did not at all wish to think of the amount of skin that would be on display and – 

Oh, the dwarf was looking at him. Right. _Wrong!_

“Me – what, _NO!_ ”, the hobbit exclaimed quickly, holding both his hands up in what could be interpreted as a repelling gesture. “I am no burglar material. At all. Never have been. And not interested in dragons. At all. Quite the opposite. Thank you.”

“Not what the wizard says”, the dwarf offered, lifting a flowery cup of tea to his lips with surprising delicacy, then taking another bite of a thick slice of bread and chewing on it. Slowly. With his mouth slightly open. “Seems to think ya just the burglar we´re looking for.”

Bilbo was torn between cursing the wizard for landing him in all this trouble and reaching over to wipe the dwarf´s mouth with a napkin. And see to the crumbs in the ridiculously bushy beard, while he was at it. Honestly. If all dwarves had such table manners - 

“ _Gandalf_ is a meddlesome, old – Now look _here_ , Master Dwarf -” The exasperated hobbit ran a hand through his curls, barely restraining himself from pulling at them in frustration - “I am very sorry for the unnecessary trouble this may cause you, I wish you only the best for your adventure, I _truly_ do, but I´m a hobbit and a hobbit does _not_ -”

“ _Halfling_.”

~ ~ ~ ~

It was even softer when quite dry.

And the hobbit felt quite qualified to give an opinion on the state at this stage because he had spent quite a number of minutes by then running a brush - and his hands - through the silky mane. Yes, fine, perhaps not quite so much dedication had been necessary in preparation for the actual task but Belladonna Baggins had always made it a point to impress on her only son the necessity of given A Matter all his attention and to Never Do Things By Half and her loving son considered this matter A Matter and so clearly did the dwarf involved in this matter because if he did not consider this matter A Matter he would surely not have reminded the hobbit of his offer and Bilbo would not have found himself sitting in an armchair with a dwarf king on the floor before him, presenting his back to the hobbit. Or rather, an abundance of silver-streaked, raven hair. 

He took a moment to mentally thank all the Valar that the dwarf had elected to at least put on some clothing.

~ ~ ~ ~ 

“You mean to take it back.”

There were the crossed arms again. Bilbo was getting very familiar with that particular sight. He supposed obstinacy was a very common dwarven trait. Or at least as far as dwarven kings were concerned. If they hailed from lonely mountains. And were currently fixing him with a cold, unreadable stare. 

He had not even considered that his _offer_ (did moments of panic and their resulting inanities qualify as an _offer_ ?) could have been taken seriously and now here he was, expected to make good on his _offer_. Right, the hobbit thought. The dwarf was probably simply only used to have other beings care for his adornments, probably even quite inapt at arranging them himself (braiding with those thick fingers – well!), so if Bilbo could help him then Bilbo would naturally help him. Quite disinterestedly, too, thank you very much!

As long as the dwarf was not going to bring up that moment in the kitchen. 

Or make that that _two_ moments in the kitchen. 

Which the hobbit had tried very hard to not think about. A good part of the short night. When he had been most frustrated with the circumstance of not being able to fall asleep, no matter how much he had been tossing and turning – he had almost begun to count hedgehogs, for Yavanna´s sake! - and had concluded that it very likely was just a matter of cultural differences and that he should not read anything into the dwarf king´s behaviour and that said dwarf king likely was just very fond of touches and _stop_ thinking about how _lovely_ that hand felt on your cheek, Baggins, and _don´t_ stare at the hand he covered with his own or you will never get any sleep and a proper hobbit always saw to it that they had at least eight hours of rest every night and just close your eyes and - 

And the king was still fixing his eyes at him. Uhm - 

“Well, yes – _no!_ ”, the hobbit immediately hastened to correct himself, upon seeing the dwarf stiffen - “It´s just that, well, you see, I have not done this before, exactly, and -”

The shoulders immediately relaxed. 

“Use these.” 

And then the dwarf had turned around, walked over to the empty armchair and had seated himself before the same; his gaze fixed on the flames that had been dancing in the fireplace. 

The hobbit had been left to inspect the richly detailed silver beads he had suddenly found in the palm of his hand. 

~ ~ ~ ~

Thorin was staring.

Thorin was very much aware that he was staring.

Thorin was staring at soft, beardless cheeks and a stubborn little chin and an adorable little nose and an entirely too kissable mouth.

And then there were those fingers.

Those fingers that were in his hair. 

Those fingers that were in his hair. Again.

Those fingers that were currently separating his hair into even strands that would then form the twin braid to the one that had already been formed to the other side of his face.

It took all of the king´s not inconsiderable self-control to not simply lean forward and claim those lips and haul the hobbit into his arms and lay him down onto the soft bed and - 

But he could not.

They were not alone, the rest of the company would be arriving during the course of the day now that the storm had fully passed, he could not allow himself to not focus on his quest and -

The burglar had yet to sign the contract.

It went against every fibre in the dwarf king´s being but he was going to observe the correct procedures. Master Baggins had been selected as their burglar and their burglar he was going to be. To the company. On this quest. What he chose to do when in private would be no-one´s concern but his own.

And the burglar´s.

Bilbo´s.

Like braiding his hair.

Which the hobbit was doing just now. 

Which the hobbit had apparently just finished doing, or so the tiny, adorable crease that had appeared between his brows and which Thorin wanted to smooth away with his thumb seemed to signal.

Thorin looked up, pleased by the faint blush that appeared on the little creature´s face upon finding the king meeting his gaze.

“Thank you”, the king said slowly, meaningfully, his eyes darkening as the blush instantly increased.

He attempted to reach for the hobbit´s hand but was – once again and to his rapidly increasing dislike – thwarted in an attempt by a commotion at the hobbit´s door.

~ ~ ~ ~

“So... you are brothers, then?”

“Oh aye”, the white-haired dwarf with a strangely split beard confirmed, his eyes twinkling. “Balin, son of Fundin, brother to Dwalin. At your service!”

He presented the hobbit with a flourishing bow.

Bilbo was prevented from answering this newest guest in his home by the quick appearance of the bald-headed warrior, who immediately greeted his kin with a jovial “By my beard! You are shorter and wider than we last met!” and proceeded to smash his forehead against the older dwarf´s and for a moment the hobbit feared he was going to find himself obliged to march over to fetch the resident healer who would not only be severely displeased at being dragged away from his elevenses but also to find himself tending to two unknown dwarves.

Apparently, dwarves were made of rock after all. 

Which was – good.

Yes.

And which gave the flustered hobbit the very welcome opportunity – now that it had been established that no physical harm had resulted from the, uhm, lovingly enthusiastic greeting (Bilbo refused to consider the same for any involved brains) – to retreat to his kitchen once again to quickly prepare his own elevenses and - Oh _Eru!_

Thorin!

The poor dwarf had not even had a cup of tea yet! 

The hobbit was horrified. Absolutely, totally, indescribably, unprecedentedly horrified. He was a terrible hobbit-host – his relations would be _ashamed_ of him! Playing around with hair – no matter how soften and silken and lovely – instead of seeing to his guests´ comfort! No, no, no, that had been very badly done by him and he intended to immediately make up for his failure! Right. Three dwarves. One hobbit. He began to calculate how much of the cream he would need and whether the strawberry or the gooseberry jam would be more appropriate and - 

“Master Baggins -”

“Oh. Yes. Thorin. I am _so_ sorry! I -”, the hobbit made a distracted movement with his arm, not even looking up to where the deep rumble had come from as he went on compiling his mental list. Scones, yes. Little blueberry muffins. Turnovers. He had those lovely green apples and - Was it too early for soup? He had potatoes and herbs and - ”Please. Sit down. I´m sure you have some maps to look over. And plans. Or – or something. Tea will be ready in but a moment. Master Balin – please make yourself at home! I – will be right back. Soon. And then prepare luncheon. Yes. Quite.”

~ ~ ~ ~

To say that the hobbit left behind three somewhat bewildered dwarves would be a bit of an understatement. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to do this like a proper hobbit and present this to you all as my gift to you on the occasion of my birthday but I will be out all day tomorrow so you get it a little early. 
> 
> Thank you again for all your lovely feedback and all the kudos and bookmarks! Those little notifications make my day. :) And I´m not even going to mention any number of chapters anymore. It´s hopeless. Hopeless. *shakes head at self*


	4. His Hobbit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo is baking, Thorin is pining and the boys are ... boys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I jotted this down in 2 days, finishing the chapter off after work tonight. And it served as a perfect distraction. And spirits-booster. If I went a little overboard where certain things are concerned I will beg your forgiveness in advance. Blame it on the day I had. I certainly do. 
> 
> As ever, thank you for reading and leaving kudos and comments and bookmarking this little piece of nonsense of mine. If you need me, come find me on tumblr - heyerette.tumblr.com :)

_Splash._

The humming instantly stopped.

Bilbo´s mouth had snapped shut into a thin, tight line; small hands still in the wooden bowl that was the temporary host of a thick, somewhat resistant accumulation of flour and eggs and milk and butter and sugar and almonds and - 

There went another.

Right.

Not his windows.

He reached for the nearest dish towel.

~ ~ ~ ~

“ _What_ do you think you are doing?”

Two pairs of eyes; one light, one dark, looked up at the irate being with his hands on his hips in a mixture of horror, surprise and confusion. Then a blinding smile broke out on the face of what the hobbit judged to be the younger of the two and the dwarf quickly jumped to his feet; not without seeing to it that the slush on the blond dwarf´s beard got spread a little further while he was on his way.

“Oh, you´re a _hobbit_!” He cheerfully advanced towards Bilbo, his grin almost impossibly wide. “I thought a troll had come down from the mountains – or _worse_!“ A sudden shudder seemed to pass through the dark haired dwarf as he seemed to ponder his options - “ _Uncle_!” He looked around, peering at the various coloured doors within sight, apparently completely oblivious to any danger he might have been finding himself in. “Say, Mister Hobbit, you wouldn´t happen to know a Mister Boggins, would you? `Tis only, we were supposed to -” 

“- meet the others. In his hole. Mahal, _Kili_ -” The blonde had by then also risen from the thawing ground (never let it be said that the Shire was not flexible in its extreme weather situations, with outside conditions having very much changed during the course of the day and with what had been a solid, icy, unforgivingly snow-covered abundance of roads and hills slowly but surely turning into what the poor hobbit – who had very much begun to fear for the state of his carpets – could only describe as an accumulation of _sludge_ ) and joined his brother, swatting at his beard and tweaking the twin braids that could be observed hanging down to both sides of a trimmed moustache.

“It´s _Baggins_ ”, the hobbit offered with a resigned sigh, his shoulders drooping a little as he accepted his fate. “But -” He quickly remembered to compose himself – who knew what _those_ two were capable of doing to his lovely little hole and it was very likely best to take a firm stance from the very beginning (if only Bilbo had thought of doing so with their _uncle_!) - and began to wag a stern finger at the pair, his eyes narrowing as he spoke. And if he was enjoying the shocked expressions and wide eyes on the lads´ faces – and was that a little fear? - Good! - he would certainly not mention it to anyone. Ever. Thank you. “If _you two_ think I will let you into Bag End with muddy slush covering your boots and with snow hidden in your pockets – yes I saw that, Master Kili! - you´ll find you´re dealing with the wrong hobbit! Yes, and you won´t be getting any dessert! Now -” Bilbo was absolutely, certainly, very assuredly _not_ affected by the twin whimpers of distress that particular threat produced and waved them towards the bench that was placed just to the side of his green door. “Take those things off over there – put away _that snow_! - and then come inside. Your uncle is here. And I won´t be telling him about the window.”

And with a firm nod, the hobbit turned on his heel and marched back into his cosy little home.

~ ~ ~ ~

Only to meet another dwarf in its frame, his arms ever folded.

The hobbit´s cheeks flushed a little as he considered how much the king might have heard. Well really, it was the dwarf´s own fault. Adults. Really. 

“You said they were grown up.” 

On that accusingly mulish note, Bilbo marched back into his kitchen.

There were more dwarves to feed.

~ ~ ~ ~

“Fili.”

“And Kili.”

“At your service.”

~ ~ ~ ~

Bilbo was tempted to enquire just how much practise that twin bow – and what seemed to be an entirely out of place seriousness on the two of them - had required when he caught the nervous glance the younger dwarf had been shooting at his uncle; who was standing not far off. With his arms crossed. Naturally.

Now really, he could not be thinking that the hobbit had – And did he not realise that _that_ would instantly - 

“Kili.”

Yup. 

Thought that.

Oh, but those blue eyes narrowing … and that deep voice turning even more - 

Nope. None of that now. Thank you.

The poor boy clearly had too many rocks in his head and needed for them to be loosened a little. Or perhaps shaken? Hm. Rearranged? Rattled? Un-rocked? But honestly – it had just been a little snow. And his window needed cleaning anyway. And there were far more pressing matters to address because those boys, while apparently considered adults in dwarven society (of which the hobbit wasn´t thinking much at that present moment), were clearly in need of some _attention_. Of the take bath-dry your clothes-sip hot tea-have dinner with dessert, yes – kind. Well, if their own kin wouldn´t see to it - 

Good thing they had chosen to come to the Shire. 

“Right. So. Come with me, boys. You´ll want – a hot bath. Yes. And leave your clothes outside, I will find you something to wear for while they are drying. And then come back here and have some tea – or maybe some hot chocolate … do you boys care for some whipped cream on top? - while we wait for the others to -” The hobbit had already started to move towards one of the many guest rooms, clearly expecting his youngest guests to follow. 

Which meant he quite missed the wide eyes both dwarves directed at their uncle, the younger heir having firmly latched on to a lapel of his brother´s coat and not seemingly planning to let go any time soon. 

“Uhm, uncle -”, Fili began cautiously, as if not quite certain what had just transpired but hoping to intimate through his quite carefully selected sequence of words that he should be very grateful for some superior guidance, if it could at all be had. 

The king merely jerked his head into the direction the hobbit had disappeared to.

~ ~ ~ ~

He was mothering his nephews.

He was mothering his nephews and offering them second helpings and feeding them cupcakes and cookies and smiling at their inanities and generally clucking around their insufferable, attention-seeking, entirely rank-unminding _hides_. 

Which Thorin would have gladly spanked – repeatedly - if not for the small, unmerciful fact that at least _someone_ had to be mindful of status. And the proprieties. Which his heirs quite obviously weren´t. Soaking up the hobbit´s oppressive care as if it were the first rays of sunshine after an age of grey and darkness...

He would make them look after the ponies.

And put them on first watch. 

Every night.

He was moreover tempted to have them see to dinner while on the road but realised the hitch in that plan. Poisoned dwarves could not confront a dragon. 

He was not jealous.

The king scoffed at the notion.

No, he was merely - 

_Kili._

~ ~ ~ ~

“So. Mister Boggins.” Kili put a friendly arm around the hobbit, scooting closer. “What´s the story?”

Which would not have troubled Bilbo – much – had it not been for the fact that there was another arm which apparently did not feel like being left out of that lovely game of Squash The Poor Hobbit that instantly reached around the small body from the other side, squeezing enthusiastically.

Oh dear.

Bilbo Baggins found himself in the middle of a dwarf sandwich. 

Ugh.

Well, not quite that, perhaps. Possibly. They _were_ sweet boys, after all. If a little – yes, well. Bilbo was just grateful that his mother´s glory box had been rescued by Balin in time. And that Dwalin had caught the plate Kili had tossed towards his brother mid-air (and he appeared to be quite immune to those big, big puppy eyes, too! Bilbo must draw him aside – when no-one else would be looking, of course – and beg him to teach him _that_ because – _Eru_ , those eyes were just too much to deal with for one poor hobbit! And how was he to survive on the road – which he would not even be travelling on, thank you very much!). And then Thorin had - 

Thorin.

Their uncle.

Their _king._

Of the Line of Durin.

Who was currently sitting at his dining table and glaring daggers at him. Who had, in point of fact, been glaring daggers at him all through the early dinner the hobbit had conjured up quickly (there would be more for the remaining dwarves, of course, who would hopefully arrive soon. Because – the more dwarves, the more distraction. From ridiculously handsome, glaring kings whom Bilbo absolutely _not_ wanted to drag over the table so that he would be able to kiss the frown away and - right. And the more dwarves – the more wizard. And Bilbo really, really, quite positively vehemently _really_ needed to have a word with the wizard. Or two. Yes, fine, thank you – perhaps a little more than that. But they would be well chosen. And involve quite a lot of adjectives. And –) Right. Kili was talking to him. 

Uhm, story?

It really was too early for bedtime tales; big, sad puppy eyes or not.

Not that the hobbit had any intention of telling any. To anyone. No. Well, he might make an exception for a certain scowling king but - 

Right.

“Uhm – story?”

~ ~ ~ ~

Kili had scooted even closer, that wide grin once more on his almost beardless face.

“You and uncle!” And it grew even wider while his brother patted the hobbit´s back, slowly and kindly, when the sip of wine their cute, fussy little host had taken seemed to somehow have upset something in the general vicinity of the inner workings of his throat. The dwarf lowered his voice conspiratorially, moving his face so that his quite impressive dwarven nose almost touched an interestingly flushed hobbit cheek.

“Uncle has been staring at you all afternoon. I think he is about ready to burst. So -” He had snatched another raspberry cupcake from a plate and put it into his mouth in one bite. “Oh _Mahal_ \- it is settled! You _must_ come to Erebor with us! I need those cupcakes in my life! You can´t make me go questing without them! And - Oi! _Fili_ -” 

“ _Ow_!” 

The blond dwarf, much to his brother´s whiny displeasure, had been about to steal the last cupcake, only to find his attempts thwarted by the great, big, tattooed paw of - 

“Awww, Mr Dwalin! That´s not _fair!_ ”

Fili pursed his lips in quite a creditable imitation of his sibling´s most trusted weapon of defence. 

Dwalin stuffed the cupcake into his mouth without even so much as a twitch of an eyelid, fixing his unmoved stare on the younger dwarf while ruthlessly demolishing the little piece of baked treasure.

The royal heir shuddered visibly and straightened in his chair for a moment and then, quick as a flash – which had Bilbo wondering slightly about the workings of the minds of any barely of age dwarves connected to the Line of Durin - turned to favour the increasingly suffocated hobbit with a suspiciously cheeky grin.

“ _Uncle_ prefers green apples.” He offered helpfully. “In a pie.”

Bilbo pondered whether the dwarf´s nephew might have been hit by one too many apples during his childhood but, ever the polite hobbit-host, naturally refrained from giving voice to that particular train of thought. As logical as it would appear. And moreover - 

“But he won´t touch _pears_ ”, Kili supplied in addition, his voice even lower than before, as if sharing a great secret. “Except for when he needs something to throw at people. And there are no rocks around.”

Pears then. And at both of them.

“- so don´t bring any on the quest, Mr Boggins. Or pluck them. From any trees. Uncle Thorin will glare at you even more if you do! And -” the devious little brat actually leaned in to whisper the following into his very red, very much pointed ear! - “There are so much more interesting things he could be doing.”

Right. Uhm -

He was going to - 

“ _Kili._ ”

~ ~ ~ ~

Bilbo would have felt relieved in the face of the very welcome circumstance that he found himself quite in charge of his personal space once more and with no strange limbs anywhere on, near or around him – and the only lips he would perhaps - Maybe. Possibly. If he thought about it. Hard. For a while - be interested in finding in the vicinity of his ear came with a decidedly thicker beard-ish adornment, thank you very much! – had it not been for the sudden tensing in not only the two nuisances beside him but in the general atmosphere of his dining room.

“Uncle – we´re sorry! We did not mean –“

“It was just a joke –“

“ _Enough!_ ” The king´s glare had taken to unprecedented intensity. Bilbo was surprised the boys were not visibly shrinking at his sides. And – “You are shaming our Line. We are guests in this home and yet you persist in accosting Master Baggins! Your mother raised you better than this.”

Both young dwarves wilted at the reminder, their shoulders hunching.

“We did not mean anything by it”, Kili offered in a low, dejected voice.

His uncle merely scowled at him, then turned away to address the white haired dwarf down the other end of the table about some matter or other, indicating that the _other_ matter was closed to him.

Now really, that was a tad – 

“No, they were _not_! I mean –“ The grey-streaked head had promptly snapped back to him; cold, blue eyes fixing themselves on the hobbit in an unrelenting gaze. Oh, that insufferable, arrogant – “It´s quite alright, boys,” _Master Baggins_ continued with a demonstratively bright smile for them, making it his mission to firmly ignore the glowering from across the table. “I really quite prefer apples myself. Though I must say –“ he took care to ruffle the younger dwarf´s hair as he stood, earning himself what his littler cousins would have knowingly referred to as a Stink Eye, once the dwarf had gotten over his shock – “I am glad I did not think to make any apple muffins. I don´t even _want_ to know what you would have done to _them_ , when I think of my poor cupcakes.” The hobbit then held up a very ornate tea pot, letting his eyes travel around the table with all the appearance of a totally unfazed hobbit-host. “Does anyone care for more tea? Mister Dwalin? More blackberry?”

Four pairs of eyes, in various degrees of surprise, horror and disbelief, instantly turned towards the bald dwarf, all other discontent momentarily forgotten.

“ _What_?”

Nobody thought it wise to enquire further into the warrior´s liquid preferences.

~ ~ ~ ~ 

“You should speak to him, laddie.”

Thorin, reluctantly removing his gaze from where the hobbit stood at the other side of the room – the cheek of that halfling really knew no bounds! It was fortunate that he was quite irresistibly adorable or the king would have to march over and tower of the small creature and glare at him and make his displeasure firmly known and then put his hands on lovely small shoulders and corner a small body against the nearest wall and lower his head to his mouth´s level and silence insolent lips with – favoured his old friend with a haughty, questioning brow.

“Thorin.”

The dwarf huffed, crossing his arms.

“No.”

Balin, well used to his king´s obstinacy, and even more versed in matters of diplomacy, was not so easily deterred.

“We _need_ a burglar and Master Gandalf is fully convinced that Mister Baggins is our safest bet. The lads like him, _Dwalin_ is drinking _tea_ ” - a fact that seemed to still somewhat shake the elder son of Fundin in his equilibrium - “- and _you_ are behaving like a tween during his first affair of the heart – and not very aptly, I might add -” The older dwarf favoured his king with a speaking look - “Inform the lad that you are wishful of entering into a courtship. There is little use in continuing to scowl at him if you wish him to be receptive of your advances. And to join the quest. It will be a little – untraditional – perhaps, but we can always attribute the divergences to the circumstances. No-one will expect you to forge the traditional weapons on the road, least of all Mister Baggins, and laddie, if -”

“We _are_ courting.”

The king´s eyes had narrowed as he had spied his nephews lounging over to the hobbit once more, quite missing the perplexed expression on his mentor´s face.

“You – oh? Oh! Well – congratulations then, laddie, but does -” Balin seemed to be a little thrown at the news, and - 

“ _WHAT?!_ ”

~ ~ ~ ~ 

“My – braids?! But – what - _WHY_?!”

The blond dwarf was gaping at the hobbit as if he were suddenly sporting three heads and four pairs of arms. At least. 

And his brother was faring no better. 

The younger dwarf´s eyes were so huge that Bilbo felt they would be popping out of his face any moment now. 

Really, what was there to be so aghast about? And someone should really inform those boys that the fish-look did not really do anything for them. Appearance-wise. Now had they been their uncle...

“But – did you not mean to put them in again, properly?”, the confused hobbit enquired, well, confusedly.

“I – yes – uhm, I mean - _Kili?!_ ”

Fili was looking at his brother as if his life depended on the younger Durin´s answer. Which it did. Clearly. Or so the whiteness of the skin around his eyes seemed to suggest. And the rest of him had taken to blanching as well and - 

“ _No_! Uhm, what I mean is – why – what – Fili?”

Best not to put one´s life in his hands then. Not when all he seemed to be capable of doing was gazing at any present company like a lost, lost puppy that really hoped it would not be kicked. Again.

Bilbo had had enough. 

Dwarflings! The lot of them!

Putting his hands on his hips and adopting a very stern, a-Baggins-is-not-to-be-trifled-with glare, he attempted to de-puzzle the puzzle.

“Now, boys, calm down and tell me what the matter is. Fili – you said you wanted to put your braids in again – and I agree, you really should see to them! Kili, my help will not harm your brother in any way, I am not going to pull out all his hair or try any funny braiding business. Unless he continues to attempt to drive me to utter distraction in which case -”

“ _You can´t marry Fili!_ ”

~ ~ ~ ~ 

“ _What_ is going on?”

~ ~ ~ ~ 

The king had marched up to where his nephews were hovering around his hobbit in what could only – and to his intense dislike – be described as an increasing state of panic; his eyes immediately fixing themselves on the small being who -

Had fainted.

Thorin was on his knees in an instant.

“Bilbo!”

A large hand moved towards the hobbit´s face, not quite daring to touch the unconscious being´s temple, while he raised furious eyes to where his sister-sons stood, the demand in them quite clear.

“Thorin -” Fili gulped, pulling at the remains of his moustache braids. “We didn´t – it wasn´t -”

“ _He_ started it!”

 _That_ probably wasn´t what his uncle wanted to hear. Or so Kili concluded, when those icy blue eyes landed on his own person. And he even liked the hobbit! He was all soft and gentle and cuddly and squishy and cupcake-maker-extraordinaire and Kili _really_ wanted the hobbit to come on the quest but _braiding_ Fili´s hair – surely Uncle would see that that shouldn´t be allowed! Especially as - 

“He said he braided _your_ hair.”

The king, his attention having momentarily drifted back to the still unmoving hobbit, his fingers wandering through soft curls a last, stiffened. 

“That is none of your conc– _Dwalin!_ ”

“ _What_?” The gruff dwarf did not appear to be moved by the glare that was directed at him, or so his posture of crossed, thick arms and unbent spine suggested. “Did the trick, didn´t it.” He peered over his king´s shoulder to inspect the hobbit that had begun to groan and shift on the ground. “Alright there, lad?”

~ ~ ~ ~ 

Bilbo spluttered, raising himself on his elbows before struggling up so as to confront his nemesis on his two – albeit slightly wobbly – hairy feet.

“Did you just throw a glass of water at me?”

“Just ta water, lad. Not the glass.”

“You – _you_!” The incensed hobbit then spun on his heel to confront the greatest bane of his up until merely a day ago comfortable, peaceful hobbit-existence and used an insistent finger to firmly poke the unprepared king into his rock-hard chest. Twice. “And you! You - _dwarf_! Ugh.” Small hands were flailing wildly - “I have had quite enough of dwarves, I am _so_ done with dwarves! No dwarves are allowed anywhere near me for the next five hours or so! And _that_ goes for my cookie jar _as well_!” (The hobbit made a point of including that highly popular storage item in his rant, ruthlessly ignoring the wounded noises that came from the direction of two princes and the look of sheer disbelief, courtesy of one outraged tattooed warrior.) He snatched the same from a nearby table and promptly stomped off, not paying any heed to the cries of “Bilbo!” and “But Mister Boggins!” and “Now see here, lad” and – most definitely - “ _Halfling_!”

~ ~ ~ ~ 

“Master Baggins.”

_“Go away!”_

~ ~ ~ ~ 

Thorin wanted to smash his fist into the barrier that separated him and the furious little being on the other side.

Balin – the increasingly tiresome dwarf – had patiently and repeatedly driven home to him the lack of wisdom and foresight it would demonstrate if he were to dispose of both of his heirs at one and the same time and before they had even set out for Erebor. 

And then Dain would be his heir and - 

He needed to speak to his hobbit.

 _The_ hobbit.

The hobbit that apparently had had no idea that he was the _king_ ´s hobbit. 

The hobbit that had meant his offer of braiding the king´s hair as a mere kindness and had had no idea that touching a dwarf´s hair was a very intimate affair, usually only undertaken by close kin or – lovers. And that putting braids into a dwarf´s hair was an advanced step of the very precise courting ritual that was to be observed when dwarves had the intention of - 

Thorin touched his forehead to the wooden frame, closing his eyes in frustration.

He wanted the hobbit.

He wanted the hobbit on his quest, in his mountain, next to his throne, in his arms, in his bed … 

He just _wanted_.

And the hobbit -

Had just wrenched open the aforementioned barrier, making the dwarf jump and his heart beat a little erratically in his chest. 

“Bilbo -”, he began after the brief moment of surprise had passed, determined to impress onto the small, flushed, adorable, _beautiful_ being how very - 

“Excuse me, I need to answer the door. Your majesty.”

And on a curt nod, the hobbit walked off to the round, green door; on which the bell had just been rung.


	5. A Lot Of Dwarves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More dwarves, more food, more exasperated hobbit. And Dwalin tries himself at matchmaking. Or something.

Bilbo Baggins was fuming.

Bilbo Baggins would very happily engage himself in a lovely little bout of a tantrum but two rather crucial facts worked against him.

One - 

He was a hobbit.

And hobbits did not indulge in tantrums. Or meltdowns. Which would be the other option close to his not at all fastidious hobbit heart.

And two - 

_Two_ \- 

It was, at that precise moment, a little difficult for him to move any parts of his body that would be required to spring into action if he were to indulge himself thusly, as it were; if he should throw all his hobbit respectability overboard for the sake of his sanity, seeing that - 

He was half-buried under a pile of dwarves. 

_Dwarves._

And the dratted wizard was looming over him. 

Them. 

Him. 

And them. 

And chuckling.

Behind his long, grey beard Gandalf the Grey was most definitely chuckling.

Well – _well_!

How - 

“Oi! Don´t squash our hobbit!”

Yes, that would actually be a very good notion, thank you.

~ ~ ~ ~

“There you go, Mister Boggins!” Kili firmly gripped the shoulders belonging to the seething hobbit, smiling at him as if rescuing hobbit-damsels in distress were part of his every day duties and nothing at all out of the ordinary. Which it probably was. Well, dwarrownesses – Lasses? Dams? She-Dwarves? Oh for the – The shameless dwarf would probably push the poor things into a pond when they were not looking and then heroically dash in to save them and be the recipient of admiring, batting eyelashes once back on dry land. Yes, and his equally brazen brother would be standing by with a flimsy bit of fabric which he would refer to as a _towel_ to wrap the poor, deluded creature up in. All the while grinning madly. Both of them. Behind their backs.

Bilbo gave him a very un-hobbitish dirty look.

And of course the brat would only widen his eyes.

Innocently.

Or what he considered to be that.

The hobbit was fast learning to read the signs.

He sniffed, letting his eyes travel across the newest batch of miscreants. Was that supposed to be a _hat_? And really, how many hours of the day did that dwarf spend in front of a mirror with those _peaks_ on his head? How did he plan to take care of them on the road? Should he – oh, no, no, no; that had got him into enough trouble as it was. Which he did not wish to think of. Now. Ever. Thank you. And _that_ one had been sitting on his - 

“I am _so_ very sorry, Mister Baggins! That was so very clumsy of me and I _assure_ you I did not mean to -”

Bilbo instantly deflated.

The very round, red-haired dwarf with the astonishing loop of a braided beard was so obviously contrite and ashamed that the hobbit did not have it in his heart to further add to his misery. He was just going to ignore the not at all interesting cracking sounds some of his bones had taken to making. And maybe stretch a little. Yes. That. And then - 

“Are you hurt?”

\- press his nose into a warm, shirt-covered chest and let big, calloused hands roam all over his form.

Perfect. 

Except -

“Oh no, no, no! Certainly _not_!” He put his small hands up to firmly push away from the rock-hard surface. “ _You_ can -” The hobbit glared up into the unfortunately still very handsome face and glared even more as he turned away – Really! He was more than cross with the dwarf and it made him even crosser that he looked almost _hurt_ at the hobbit´s reaction. Stupid, presumptuous, _insufferable_ creature! - and happened upon the astonished, shocked, confused and – that was the peaks-adorned dwarf! - knowingly smirking faces of most of the assembled company. 

Dwalin had the sense to at least stoically sip his tea.

He must have been quite awash with it by then. 

Right. 

So.

“Uhm – supper?”

~ ~ ~ ~

“My dear Thorin -” The bushy grey brows rose in mild astonishment - “Are you saying you are not quite _pleased_ with my choice of burglar?”

That made the king´s mouth, which had been spewing quite an impressive number of not at all carefully selected words and the odd curse here and there, firmly shut.

When no reply was forthcoming - 

“I thought not. Really, it seemed quite impossible to me, given what Master Kili saw fit to impart – although I am slightly confused as to how our burglar could have found himself proposing to young Master Fili when he -”

“You presume a lot, wizard”, Thorin snarled, having drawn himself up to his full height. “You _must_ have been aware that the halfling looks more like a _grocer_ and yet you send me here, on a _fool´s_ errand, wasting my time and -” There was a pause before the king continued, a slight crack in his hard voice - “Master Baggins will not be joining this quest. Your _burglar_ is not one for stealing.”

~ ~ ~ ~

That was, except for that one thing.

~ ~ ~ ~

Thorin was going to strangle the wizard.

Thorin itched to wrap his fingers around the wizard´s throat and - 

It was all the wizard´s fault.

The wizard who had urged him to set out for the Shire days earlier than had been agreed upon, assuring him that the members of his company should already be expecting his arrival in their prospective burglar´s home due to the excellent weather conditions, which would make travelling on the roads a less trying procedure than they had originally assumed. And time was, of course, of the essence.

The King – adopting the air of one goaded almost beyond endurance upon receiving the message from an insupportably top-lofty raven – had therefore set out from the north sooner than had probably been polite (not that Thorin had not very much enjoyed the ill-concealed huffs and barely disguised looks of effrontery on the faces of those lords who had flat out refused to support his quest. And Balin had not been there to see it.) and had travelled south, his mood darkening the closer he came to the abundance of green hills that made up the settlement of Hobbiton and -

The more _hobbits_ he had to address, from atop his pony, to request directions from. 

To his immense, rapidly growing dislike.

It was not that he had been _lost_.

He was never _lost_.

His sense of direction was just _fine_.

And not to be questioned.

He was King.

His nephews had long stopped their cackling; it had taken only one very low, very direct, to the point, well-phrased, well thought-out _promise_ and they had hastily assured their Uncle that they would always be all that was happy to go wherever he should wish to lead them.

They had even managed to not cringe. 

Much.

Asking those round, curly-haired, unattractively big-footed creatures for assistance had gone against all of his kingly dignity. One more grievance to add to his ever growing list of Grievances To Be Put At The Insufferable Wizard´s Door.

Now that he remembered it.

When he had at last found his way to that annoyingly green door he had expected to be greeted with the respect that was due to him. 

The usual.

Bows.

Lowered eyes.

Balin´s pleased, gentle smile. 

A _friendly_ pat on the back from Dwalin. (Which reminded him he still owed that brute one for _that_ bruise.)

His sister-sons´ puppy-like exuberances. 

When he much preferred cats.

Not that Thorin had, as yet, mentioned it to them. 

Those eyes had a strangely unsettling effect on his equilibrium.

Still.

Curse them.

Instead the round door had eventually opened to reveal - 

_Mahal_ , but the hobbit had been cute.

With his golden curls and big, questioning eyes and his adorably confused face and - 

Those feet were _very_ attractive.

And then he had started shouting.

At the hobbit.

Who had seemingly tried to take him for a fool when he had travelled across half of Middle Earth to a Mahal-forsaken place to retrieve the burglar he had not wanted and - 

Except now he wanted him.

His fingers clenched on the letter that he had taken enormous pleasure in throwing into the wizard´s face. Figuratively. Since he still needed the confounded, thrice-damned -

An owl.

And no hobbit.

~ ~ ~ ~

“Oh, I think you´ll find you are much mistaken to believe Bilbo Baggins not in the possession of the shrewdness required for your purpose, Thorin. Bilbo is -”

“He is in the possession of _everything_ I -” The dwarf king seemed to recollect himself, albeit with with an effort. His tone, when he spoke again, was much less fierce, at all events. “Speak to the halfling, wizard, if you will not take my word on this. _Master Baggins_ has no interest in any adventures.”

~ ~ ~ ~

“Yes, I do believe I will...”, Gandalf murmured to himself while casting his old, knowing eyes over the assembled dwarves and hobbit, who were clustered around the dining table in the adjacent room.

~ ~ ~ ~

Bilbo observed the utter -

Chaos.

There was no other way to describe the happenings in his home. There were plates and glasses and mugs and tankards and pots and pans and bowls and knives and forks and spoons and food – _Eru_ , there was food! - and loudness and belching and singing and drinking and boots and coats and weapons and hair and beards and braids and - 

Dwarves.

Above all - 

There were _dwarves._

He was surrounded by dwarves.

Everywhere.

There seemed to be a dwarf in every corner.

Around every bend.

In every cookie jar.

Well, a hand at least.

Or that may have been just Dwalin.

But the hobbit supposed everyone needed something to go with their tea.

And better the jars than his - 

“ _No!_ Stop that! That is _not_ a dish cloth!” 

Bilbo snatched the abused doily out of the hatted-dwarf´s hands.

Bofur – said dwarf with an obvious penchant for headdress that came with strangely floppy ears – appeared to be no little confused. 

“But it´s full of holes!”

Of course it was full of holes, it was _meant_ to be full of holes, it had been _made_ with every intention of it showing off a generous number of holes! But the hobbit figured dwarves, on the whole, wear sadly unversed in all matters crochet – very likely the very extensive, very exciting, very wonderful world of needlework to begin with! - and therefore forwent lecturing the friendly dwarf on the very obvious differences between cleaning utensils and table decoration. Besides, the dwarf had at least _meant_ to clean up after himself. Or so Bilbo chose to assume. Right. Well. More - 

Food.

And ale. 

Yes

Definitely more ale.

Even with the singing and all that.

That should distract the lot of them for a bit. Longer. 

The boys were already bad enough.

And Bilbo was not even going to think about any _when_ s or _why_ s when it came to him thinking about the king´s heirs as _boys_ which, especially to a hobbit who had not even known them a full day yet – and who had begun to think of them as just that the moment his eyes had set upon those two. Because _really_! - wasn´t quite proper. For a Baggins. But that´s just what they were. Boys. Princes. And boys. And _what_ boys. 

Teasing him and putting arms around him and cuddling him and near squashing him and snatching food from his plate and trying those eyes on him and accusing him of having designs on - 

Well, no.

That was their esteemed uncle´s fault. 

And the hobbit really, really, _really_ had no intention of thinking of _that_. Ever. Again. 

And if he had to keep feeding and filling up all those dwarves in his cosy little smial to prevent them from further – and in some cases lewdly (his ears had never been so red before!) - enquiring into What Happened and Why Did Thorin Hug You and Are You Really Marrying Fili and putting demands of Mind No Funny Business On The Quest, Lad and Only If We May Watch (he was going to put honey into the peak-haired dwarf´s – Flori? Hori? - hair!) before him he was very much prepared to do so. Even at the risk of finding himself in an empty pantry the next morning. When they would all be gone. 

And he would be on his own again.

Without dwarves.

Boys.

Kings.

Thorin.

Whom he was very, very, _very_ cross with! 

Stupid dwarf.

Stupid, idiotic, arrogant, presumptuous cloth head of a dwarf.

Who wanted the hobbit to stroll into a mountain to nose about in a treasure hoard and steal from a _dragon_.

And he called that _courting_!

Insufferable dwarf.

Courting.

 _Courting_ involved flowers. And meals. And embroidered tokens. And hand-holding. And stolen kisses under party trees. And – and -

Oh.

Dragon.

Smaug.

Smaug?

He even had a name.

Wonderful.

Well, they could think again if they thought he would march up to the dragon and start any “Good morning, Mister Smaug!” business. Really. And moreover - 

“ - searing pain, then puff! You're nothing more than a pile of ash!“

Thank you, Bofur. 

„Yes, thank you, Master Bofur – I know what a dragon is!“

„Well, ´course ya do, laddie!“ The dwarf leant over to put a friendly arm around the testy hobbit, all the while smiling encouragingly. Or stupidly. Depending on where you sat. Bilbo was leaning towards the latter, from where he sat. Definitely. „Or ya wouldn´t be our burglar now, would ya?“

By the Green Lady - 

Those _dwarves!_

Did all that hacking about in their mines affect their hearing? (The exasperated hobbit was very much aware that mining likely did not come into the quotation for most of them at that present time but he needed an even if only remotely logical explanation for their thick-headedness, other than it being an inherent dwarven quality, and well, they were mountain folk, their mountains came with mines, mines came with hacking about so -) 

Right. 

Bilbo stood abruptly, shaking off the pestering arm around his shoulder, held up his hands in a Stop That Nonsense Now And Kindly Attend To Me - gesture and began to speak. Slowly. Clearly. Authoritatively. For a hobbit. 

Which made that lot – or at least those whose faces he could see – grin. 

Widely. 

Rudely.

Really.

„Right. Thank you. So. I am _not_ your burglar. A burglar. Anyone´s burglar, really. No-one´s. Never have been, never will be. I am _sorry_ but whatever Gandalf may have -” 

“Ah, there you are, Bilbo! I believe we were to have a little talk -” 

Or there was that.

Right.

Fine.

The words.

He still had all those words.

Dratted wizard.

~ ~ ~ ~

“Just grab ´im and put ´im into tha saddle bag. Halfling´s small enough to fit.”

~ ~ ~ ~

To say that poring over the map, learning that his father´s key had been in the wizard´s possession all that time and informing his kin and company that they would have no allies on their quest to retake their home had not put a strain on the king´s temper would be akin to stretching the truth a little too far.

Watching the halfling scurry around; putting plate after plate, bowl after bowl tankard after tankard, mug after mug before a set of hungry, boisterous dwarves and an enigmatically phlegmatic wizard; coddling his sister-sons and the young Ri-scribe, being the perfect, amiable if slightly harried host while ignoring _him_ as much as was possible without seeming too obviously rude - 

Oh, Master Baggins had been all that was _politeness_. 

Would his majesty care for more soup? 

Did his majesty prefer his cake with whipped cream or berries?

He would be happy to search his pantry for more shortbread, if his majesty should care for it.

Thorin hated it.

The shortbread.

And the subservience.

And the Your Majesty-ing.

He thought he had made that point abundantly clear.

To the hobbit.

Repeatedly.

Stubborn hobbit.

Cute, stubborn hobbit.

He did not want the stubborn hobbit to _serve_ him.

He would endure the hobbit rant at him, scold him, shout at him, curse him, _poke_ him as long as...

He had found -

He had found what he had long given up hoping to find at the most inopportune of times; when all his mind, all his thoughts, all his efforts should be concentrated on his quest, on defeating the beast, on taking back their home and treasure; on being a leader to his people. Their King.

And yet - 

He wanted him. 

And the hobbit – _Bilbo_ -

Thorin scowled.

Bilbo.

The hobbit.

The hobbit that was his hobbit.

Who did not wish - 

Who would not - 

The king lifted his pipe to his mouth, his scowl deepening.

And felt a hand on his shoulder before he could take another puff.

~ ~ ~ ~

“Dwalin.”

The tattooed warrior had sat down on the bench, stretched out a pair of thick legs, seemingly unperturbed by the clear dismissal and, quite unhurriedly, leant over to help himself to some of the weed from the pouch that the king kept in one of his many coat pockets and which had currently been sitting on said bench by way of a rather ineffective if useful, for his personal pleasure, barrier.

“Or ya could simply tell him he´s your One.”

Thorin promptly stood.

“It is not that simple.”

“Aye”, his oldest friend confirmed ruthlessly, leisurely inspecting his pipe. “Not if ya keep making a mull of it.” He held the angry gaze. “Speak to ta lad. Tell him you´ll protect him. That you´ll build him a little garden in ta mountain and that he´s welcome to bring his books and ta tea and -”

The king glared at the other dwarf, arms folded.

“Since when have _you_ cared for _tea_? 

“Now ya majesty is just bein´ rude!” Dwalin complained in a wounded voice, stroking his beard slowly. Thoughtfully. “And here I thought I´d come out in the dark to let ya majesty know that _Bofur´s_ become mightily friendly with ya majesty´s hobbit. Last I saw he´d put an arm around him and -”

~ ~ ~ ~

It had taken mere seconds for the round, green door to be wrenched open and the stomping of boots to be heard inside.

And if there had been a smirk on the bald warrior´s face, he would not have been the one to own to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter, I think. Thank you for sticking with this. :)


	6. Plight of a Hobbit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin is a dwarf of action. When he is not emotionally constipated. Or even then.

Gandalf was lucky.

Gandalf was so very, very _lucky_.

Gandalf was lucky that the hobbit felt far too exhausted for any further physical activity that evening – an accumulation of dwarves of all shapes and sizes falling through your door and landing on your unprepared body had that effect. And then he had had to shake off arms and to slap hands who got a little too close to his plate and to push against lovely, hard chests and - and had therefore decided to not climb onto that stool over there so that he would be just that little bit nearer to the wizard´s face and - 

Dratted wizard.

~ ~ ~ ~

“My dear Bilbo, there is no need for all this excitement – everything turned out quite well in the end.”

The hobbit spluttered.

“Quite _well_?! You -! _Gandalf_!” The plump cheeks had adopted a distinctly red-ish hue. “I have been _shouted_ at by a strange dwarf – who ate _all_ my shortbread! -, accused of _dwarf_ -napping!, been held personally responsible for _snow_ , walked in upon when un _dress_ \- yes, well-” It had turned into a beautifully blooming blush - “was almost _squashed_ under a pile of loud, rude, obnoxious, entirely mannerless _dwarves_ \- who have taken a strange liking to _hugging_ me! _And_ to my cupcakes! -, told I am to _tiptoe_ into a dragon´s den, if you please, to steal from said _dragon_ and to try to stay alive while I possibly can; and no promises, mind! Not that any of those dwarves you inflicted on me would _care_ if I ended up a roasted hobbit dinner but -”

“That, my dear Bilbo, appears to not be quite the truth”, the wizard interjected mildly. Knowingly.

Bilbo narrowed his eyes.

Was that a twinkle?

Did he - 

Well, really!

That _dratted_ -

The hobbit huffed.

“I had no idea that _that_ would – I - I´m a _hobbit_! _Hobbits_ are only fastidious about the hair on their _feet_ , thank you. Now -” Bilbo absolutely refused to think about how lovely that not-feet-hair had felt when his fingers had combed through it and - “You did not even warn me, Gandalf! You just sent them all here and -”

Which brought the hobbit back to the origin of all the evil that had been afflicted upon him. Courting. Really. If that was court- Yes, well. So. Sent them. The wizard had... Sent. Them. To the Shire. To Hobbition. To Bag End. To Bilbo. Telling them – and not telling _him_ -

He crossed his arms.

“I am not interested in any adventures, Gandalf. I am sorry, but if you had asked me before making all those dwarves practically pillage my pantry, all of this could have been avoided! I would be sitting here, quietly, in my armchair, reading my book, drinking my tea, smoking my pipe – not at all involved with any dwarves and their kings and their quests and their dragons and their lonely mountains and -”

“You have been sitting here quietly for far too long, Bilbo Baggins! I clearly did well sending Thorin Oakenshield to you. Now”, the wizard continued in what the hobbit, thinking it over later, considered an abominably rude, quite unperturbed manner. “I feel a great need for a glass of that excellent wine you keep hidden in your study. Or was it dear Belladonna who took to that? Yes, I almost think it was. Your mother was quite one of my favourites.... And perhaps some of that excellent cheese from Bree? I believe Master Bombur has taken quite a liking to it-”

“What? Wait - _Gandalf!_ You can´t just -” 

The exasperated hobbit was left to find – staring after the disappearing wizard - that Gandalf, indeed and very much, could.

~ ~ ~ ~

Icy blue eyes swept the room.

A puffing wizard.

Half-drooping nephew on shoulder of marginally more alert other nephew.

Map-studying Balin. (One. Out of twelve. Mahal _wept_.)

Smiling up at returning Dwalin.

Bursting with paternal pride Gloin. (Could he blame the disappearance of that amulet on -? Hm.)

Blessedly deaf Oin.

Carving Bifur.

Still stuffing Bombur. (That cheese _reeked_! He was not going to sleep anywhere near the Urs. Ever.)

Fussing Dori.

Patiently enduring Ori.

Smirking Nori. (First watch. And second. In the rain.)

No miner.

No hobbit.

No _hobbit_.

 _His_ hobbit.

His hobbit that was not – there.

Like the miner.

Bofur.

Who was – missing.

Who was _not_ with the rest of the company.

Where he should be.

Not eating foul cheese with his brother.

As he should.

Not carving misshaped toys with his cousin. 

As he also should.

(Thorin was very well aware that the quality of the toys and trinkets produced by the Urs was rather substantial but chose to wilfully ignore that very irrelevant fact. He was King.)

Bofur was not where he should be.

Which was with the company.

The hobbit was not where he should be.

Which was in that room.

With the dwarves.

And the wizard.

Him.

Next to him.

His arms.

His bed.

The hobbit´s bed.

And not anywhere even remotely near that miner.

_Mightily friendly._

The king´s fingers curled into a fist.

~ ~ ~ ~

“Bofur. Where is he.”

~ ~ ~ ~

The snarl in his uncle´s voice quite shook the younger heir out of his pleasant doze.

Kili blinked. 

At his uncle, around the room, at his brother, then back at his uncle. 

And frowned.

“Not here?”

The glower he received in return for that attempt at friendly assistance prompted the dwarf to practically crawl into his brother´s lap. Off which he was even prompter pushed. 

“Ow! _Fili!_ ” 

Kili stared up at his brother from his new position on the hobbit´s very unpleasantly wooden floor, rubbing at his elbow; his eyes wide in a suggestion of disbelieving betrayal. 

The older prince merely rolled his eyes in response, muttering something about not being a tree and if Kili needed something to climb around on he should try see if Mister Dwalin was at leisure. 

Which earned him such a look as to induce him to slowly slide down from his place on the bench to join his still pouting sibling on the floor. Under the table. Preferably. Not to come out again before the older dwarf had gone to bed. And been fed more of the hobbit´s biscuits. _Mahal_ , he would have to ask Bilbo to make sure there were some for breakfast now! 

It was all Kili´s fault. 

Kili started it.

He would have to ask their burglar to bake more of his extremely mouth-watering almond biscuits so that there would be enough stock to keep Dwalin happily busy and that meant Bilbo would have less time to do whatever it was he would otherwise be doing with Thorin – which Fili _really_ , absolutely, positively, in no possible way _wanted_ to think about! - and that would mean that _Thorin_ would blame _Fili_ and be in an even more horrible mood and make him rise extra early to get some special training in with Dwalin and he would have to deal with _Dwalin_ and - 

_Smack._

“Oi! _Ow!_ ” Kili´s hand had moved on to the back of his head. “What was _that_ for?”

Which only made him the recipient of another cuff.

Followed by his brother.

Which had them both looking up accusingly into the face of an entirely unrepentant, unamused, heavily tattooed dwarf.

Both siblings thought it very wise to immediately tend to their injuries. 

And to stay on the floor.

~ ~ ~ ~

“Bofur? He´s with the halfling. Helping with supper or something, ain´t he?”

“Aye”, Gloin confirmed, snatching his locket out of Nori´s investigating hands. “Went off to the kitchen together a while ago. Not a clue how ta lad thinks we can put more food into our bellies. Well –“ the ginger-haired dwarf added while in the process of introducing the other dwarf´s hand to the spikes on his fork, ´xcept Bombur here, that is.”

“Oh, I wouldn´t mind a little portion of this crumble Mister Baggins mentioned. And some cream with it, perhaps”, Bombur confirmed in his good natured way, rubbing his belly in blissful expectation.

“Course ya wouldn´t. But I´m not swapping my pony with ya on the way!”,

“Makes you wonder where those hobbits put all that food, doesn´t it”, came from one of the other dwarves. “Burglar being such a tiny one and all.”

“Aye– all they seem to do is eat!” That was yet another dwarf.

“Be grateful ta hobbit is sharing his food with ya! _I_ wouldn´t.”

And that was Dwalin.

And there went a little mutiny in the Shire.

Which the king, already on his way to slowly strangle a certain miner and pull a cute, stubborn little hobbit into his arms; put a quick and efficient end to with the following blow:

“They eat seven meals a day.”

~ ~ ~ ~

“No.”

“Ah, come on”, the dwarf ruffled the curly hair in what he appeared to think an endearing fashion. “It´s just a bit of smoke, really. Snatch a trinket, leave ta mountain; quite easy, really. Low risk of incineration and lacerations. Or should be.” Bofur seemed to ponder his own line of encouragement a little, stroking his beard. “Ya can never be _sure_ , of course.”

Oh for Eru´s -

~ ~ ~ ~

They were daft.

The dwarves were _daft_. 

Really, clearly, entirely. Completely.

Daft.

Apart from being rude, mannerless, noisy, _nosey_ , much too prone to playing Cuddle Up To The Hobbit and suicidal. Yes. That. Definitely. Walking into mountains, stealing from dragons -

Really.

And Bilbo had no idea why he liked them, even!

Which he did.

Stupid hobbit that he was.

Because _liking_ them meant he was going to think about them and _thinking_ about them meant he was going to wonder and _wondering_ about them meant he was going to worry and _worrying_ about them - 

Fili. 

Kili. 

Ori.

They were _children_!

And sweet Bombur.

And Dwalin.

Who would be making his tea?

And -

And.

Thorin.

As cross as he was with the dwarf; the thought of the king facing the apparently very mighty _Smaug_ \- 

Which he would. If no-one with even an ounce of common sense were there to stop him (which would not be any of his company because they were all walking around Middle Earth with rocks in their heads! Well, but for Balin. Maybe.). Thorin would confront the beast with a snarl and his sword raised and probably insult the _dragon_ because he would not even _think_ to think before he acted and - 

Oh _would_ Bofur just -

~ ~ ~ ~

“ _Will_ you stop petting my hair! I´m _not_ -” The hobbit huffed, crossing his arms. “What _is_ it with you dwarves? This – this - _hair_ thing you lot have going on is quite -”

The tea water chose that moment to signal its readiness. As it were.

Which was – fortunate.

For the dwarf.

And his well-being.

And Bilbo.

And his dignity.

Especially for his dignity.

Suffering as it was.

Because now he could present all his grievances to the disinterested, impartial observer that was the boiling kettle. Grumblingly. And in detail. Which opportunity he took. Immediately. Thankfully.

“ _Touch_ it and you´re considered as good as _brazen_!” Now where did he put those leaves again – Ah. Yes. And maybe some more blackberry. For Dwalin. “Offer to _help_ with those stupid, lovely _braids_ and you find yourself in the middle of a _courtship_ -” The special - spices. For his chocolate. Which he needed. Very much. Thank you. “Whether you want to or not! And really – is it too much to ask to be _asked_? Hobbits have their standards, you know!” He should also whip up some cream. And there should be a few marshmallows left for the boys - “I _do_ understand that anyone may find it hard to procure the requisite flowers at this time of the year but I´m a _hobbit_ and I´d quite like for this courting business to involve _words_ and – and - a _meal_ , possibly, and maybe a nice handkerchief and – oh, thank you, Bofur! - and moreover, I´d - 

Except, it wasn´t Bofur that had reached up to retrieve the tin of aromatic sources of joy which the hobbit had been trying to reach while standing on his tiptoes.

~ ~ ~ ~

The king´s hand had instinctively reached down to where his sword should be. Only there was no sword, of course, because all weapons had been neatly and orderly arranged alongside one of the walls in the ever-bending hall and on, as well as under, a table the hobbit had conjured up, faced with the growing number of offending, sharp and partially dirty swords and axes and hammers and bows and was that a slingshot?

It had been.

The halfling had firmly put his foot down.

And then the other.

Hands on lusciously round hips.

Which Thorin had not been staring at.

At all.

And which had _not_ caused him to bellow at his company to do as the hobbit said, just so that no-one else would. 

He had been stomping his way to the kitchen, something akin to what dwarves in less admirable control of their emotions would very likely categorise as jealousy floating through his veins; when he caught the hobbit´s exasperated exclamation of -

 _Will you stop petting my hair!_

Rage had flooded the king´s very being.

Someone else was touching the hobbit. 

_His_ hobbit. 

His hobbit´s _hair._

The hair that was Thorin´s to admire, Thorin´s to touch, Thorin´s to run his fingers through, Thorin´s to put a braid in that would speak, very clearly, to any dwarf – and any other being – of whom the hobbit belonged to.

Which was not -

~ ~ ~ ~

“Bofur. You are saying that _Bofur_ -”

__

~ ~ ~ ~

Bilbo was about to give himself over to an apoplectic fit. Or he hoped he was going to have one because invalids did not have to deal with moronic, bull-headed, outraged, possessive dwarf kings!

Or he assumed they did not.

Not that he had any experience in that matter.

And not that he would precisely _mind_ being looked after by certain dwarf kings after a fit but well, you know - 

Right.

Dwarf king.

Who was standing there, in his kitchen, arms folded, glaring menacingly and entirely refusing to be moved from his position; mental or otherwise.

The hobbit did not even _want_ to know what it had been that the dwarf had snarled at the poor miner in that strange, hard, growl of a language of theirs – which apparently was one of great, great secrecy and could not possibly be shared with any outsider, _no_! - which had prompted Bofur, a little white around the eyes, to instantly make himself scarce. 

The traitor.

Now _he_ had to deal with the stupid - 

Why was the dwarf even there? 

The hobbit crossed his own arms, holding lifting his chin defiantly.

“Was there something your majesty wanted?”

A flinch.

Good.

“Because if there wasn´t I´d quite like to take these -” Bilbo gestured towards the tray that bore what had turned out to be quite a scrumptious, generous offering for even a proper hobbit supper - “back in there.” 

For a moment, the dwarf looked ready for murder but quickly arranged his expression into one the hobbit was fast learning to refer to as Majestic Indifference. 

Well – really!

Oh, he was not going to even - 

“Well, good. Excellent. If your majesty will excuse me then -” He made to reach for the tray and march away with it and its lovely spread, fully intending to _not_ offer the dwarf one of the still warm, fluffy little muffins – only to find himself -

Squeaking.

~ ~ ~ ~

“What – You _insufferable_ – how _dare_ -!” The furious hobbit wriggled in the firm grip, which had only the effect of it tightening around his body. That - “You – you _dwarf_! Let me down! _Now!_ I will pull your braids if I have – _Thorin_!”

~ ~ ~ ~

If he had been thinking in any way rationally, he would have noticed that there was a hobbit in his arms.

 _His_ hobbit.

In _his_ arms.

In its way.

As it was, the dwarf was not inclined to take to any such straining occupation at that present moment and thus ignored the wriggling, scolding, infuriated creature he had unceremoniously snatched up and half tossed over one shoulder; only barking at his nephews to see to supper when he caught them, from a corner of his eye, first gaping at the struggling hobbit and then at himself. 

They swiftly took themselves off to the kitchen, leaving their twin-question of _Uncle -?!_ quite hanging in the air.

Adjusting the progressively outraged hobbit in his hold – those cute little hands that were pounding on the back of his shoulders! - he kicked the door to what he remembered to be the hobbit´s bedroom open with one booted foot and then shut the same again behind him with a firm kick of the other foot; all the while not releasing his hold on the indignant being. 

What he _wanted_ -

There was a low growl in the king´s throat.

~ ~ ~ ~

Bilbo spluttered.

It may have been indignation, it may have been that he found himself face first amongst his many pillows (he quite liked their fluffy company during his nightly repose, thank you very much!), it may have been that he had been dumped – dumped! - onto his very own bed but the hobbit was most definitely spluttering.

Oh!

_Oh!_

How - 

That - 

Oh _no_. 

No, no, no, no, NO. 

The hobbit kicked away blankets and pillows alike, scrambled around on the bed, moved to its lower end – where he had the best view of his quarry – and, small chest heaving, jumped up to intimately acquaint that _abominable_ excuse of a dwarf king with his opinion of being practically hobbit-napped in his _own home_ and tossed about in his _own room_ and onto his _own bed_ -

“ _You_! You - How _dare_ you pick me up like a _child_ and treat m– hnnnggghhhh -”

~ ~ ~ ~

It was the hobbit´s fault.

He had had no intention.

None.

He had merely decided to take the hobbit somewhere they could be private in and to convey to him the necessity of his presence during the quest. And after. But best not cover all areas at once; given how adorably obstinate his hobbit could be.

But then he had turned back towards where he had deposited the hobbit, having secured the bolt on the door. 

And the hobbit had - 

Was - 

How was Thorin to resist?

The hobbit - 

_Bilbo_ \- 

Had looked so -

He had surged forward.

~ ~ ~ ~

He was being kissed.

By Thorin.

He was being _kissed_ by _Thorin_.

He was being kissed by Thorin; thoroughly, longingly, hungrily, passionately, possessively; in his room, on his bed, on top of his crisp white sheets, with his back firmly pressed into the mattress, the dwarf´s calloused hands tangling in his curls, the dwarf´s body fully covering his own.

Somewhere in the room his Baggins brain was pointing out that that was a Very Bad Idea and that Bilbo should not permit the rude, insolent, grumpy dwarf to manhandle him like that and put a Very Firm End to it.

While in another part of the room his Tookish brain argued that as it had only been what he had wanted from the stupid, handsome, lovely dwarf practically from the moment he had opened his round, green door to his irritated expression it was quite permissible to indulge himself a little.

Bilbo was leaning towards agreeing with his Tookish brain for once. 

Until he felt the hand on his backside. 

Which squeezed.

The hobbit shot up.

~ ~ ~ ~

Thorin blinked.

There was surprising strength in the halfling.

Or so he pondered, finding himself on the floor, legs half-entangled in a sheet that he apparently had grabbed onto in his ungraceful tumble off the edge of the bed.

He glowered up at the hobbit, affronted in his kingly and personal dignity. How _dare_ the -

There was a finger in his face. Before his face. Within his general line of vision.

And it was – wagging.

Firmly.

Scoldingly.

Forbiddingly.

In front of his face.

Almost touching his nose.

He was even more affronted.

Now matter how cute that habit was. 

Or how tempting that finger.

He was _not_ going to - 

“- _kiss_ me! Without so much as - I don´t know how it´s done amongst _dwarves_ (though clearly in an entirely _stupid_ dwarfish way!) but us hobbits, we tend to _ask_ , first! _Asking_ would generally be a very good idea, you know, and – and _talking_! And your beard _scratches_. That is - all I have to say. To this. Thank you.”

 _Mahal_ , that _pout_ \- 

Dishevelled.

The hobbit looked absolutely, thoroughly, delightfully dishevelled.

With his cheeks flushed, his pupils wide, his lips swollen from their -

Thorin smirked, very much pleased with how his evening had progressed.

The floor was just a minor inconvenience; the hobbit had clearly just been overwhelmed.

As had Thorin.

His hobbit-hazed mind, while aware of being addressed – vehemently so -, was only able to focus on the indescribable feeling that had been kissing the hobbit. Being kissed by the hobbit. Because he _had_ been kissed by the hobbit. 

Enthusiastically.

And he would not mind being kissed by the hobbit. Again.

And kissing the hobbit. Again.

In fact, it seemed like the only sensible thing to do at that present moment so his hand reached out and - 

“ _Ow!”_

~ ~ ~ ~

His braids.

The hobbit had just pulled his _braids_.

Hard.

The dwarf glared.

“Oh don´t give me that look, Thorin Oakenshield! You were not even _listening_ , were you?!

Thorin was about to voice his protest – both over being manhandled and being accused – but - 

“No -”, the hobbit huffed, climbing off the bed. “Of _course_ you were not listening! You´re Thorin Oakenshield, King under the bloody Mountain, why would you listen to a mere _hobbit_!” Bilbo had by then worked himself into a quite unhobbit-ish rage and was pacing his bedroom, ignoring the dwarf that had rearranged himself on his floor, the dark hair fanning about him, a noble brow raised in haughty enquiry. “Yes, and that´s the gist of the problem, isn´t it! You dwarves – you – you _just_ don´t _listen!_ I keep telling you I am _not_ your burglar – or any burglar, really – that I am _not_ interested in any adventures but will any of you lot _listen_ to me? And I´m _sorry_ if you think me rude but I am really, really, _really_ tired of dwarves and wizards and adventures and quests and being nearly squashed and cuddled and - and _kissed_ and _not_ listened to and -” The hobbit held up his hands in a gesture that spoke of finality, his tone quite resolute. “I will be happy to make you all breakfast tomorrow and feed your ponies some sugar and apples before you leave but you will -”

“I´m sorry.”

~ ~ ~ ~

The dwarf looked -

Defeated.

But that was just - 

Should he not be all majestic and enraged and haughty and angry and shouting and -? 

Instead, the king had silently moved up to the hobbit, his hands at his side, wearing such a look of misery about his person that the hobbit´s instincts instantly turned towards comforting and he had to remind his itching hands that _touching_ had been what had started all that – business. 

Firmly.

Because something in the general vicinity of his breastbone had begun to tug.

Strongly.

And - 

_Oh._

There was that hand again.

On his cheek.

With that thumb softly ghosting over it.

The hobbit furrowed his brow.

What - 

“I am sorry. Bilbo. We should not have - _I_ should not have -” A pained hint of a smile briefly flickered across the dwarf´s face. Then he straightened, the hand suddenly removed. “We shall leave at dawn. There is no need to trouble yourself further, Balin will see to it that you are adequately compensated. Rest well, Master Baggins.” 

And with a brief, gentle touch of his forehead to that of the hobbit´s, the dwarf was gone.

~ ~ ~ ~

Empty.

Silent.

Empty.

And silent.

Right.

That was just as it should be.

That was just what the hobbit had been wishing for ever since that first _dwarf_ had descended upon his smial. 

Some peace.

And quiet.

Silence.

Privacy.

To enjoy his breakfast on his own (with no hands trying to snatch food off his plate!), to read his book (with no shouting and hollering almost making him tear his page in surprise!), to fall asleep in his warm, comfortable bed the moment he pulled the blanket over his exhausted body (with no dwarves singing sad, beautiful, haunting songs that kept a hobbit up for hours after they had long ended! Well – that any perhaps Other Things that may have been going on on the bed. Or not. Or – no. He was not even going there.).

Yes.

Good.

Perfect, even.

Not a single dwarf in sight.

His home all - 

Dwarf-less and -

Cleaned up?

In quite pristine condition, really. Did they - 

They did.

Those - 

_Dwarves!_

Oh, but that was so typical, wasn´t it! First they practically clear your pantry of every morsel of food – and ale!, then they almost destroy your plumbing, then they leave their _things_ lying about _everywhere_ , obliging a hobbit to watch where his poor toes were stepping, and then – then!

Really.

Now he could not even be cross with them!

Oh, but he could surely be cross with Thorin, because _Thorin_ very likely _ordered_ them to it and Bilbo had no patience for such high-handedness, no, and he would tell him that he - 

Except – he wouldn´t.

Because they were gone.

The dwarves.

His dwarves.

The king.

His - 

Who had not even had the common courtesy to say goodbye! He had tossed him around, had stroked his cheek, had _kissed_ him – and that forehead thing! The hobbit still puzzled over that part – and had made him _court_ him and then he just went and – and -

_Left._

That – that -

Stupid, arrogant, insufferable _dwarf_!

It was a very good thing that Bilbo would not be seeing the king again because he would have quite a few words for him. Many words. Many, many _words._

So.

Breakfast.

Right.

Wait – that thing on the table – was it?

It was.

The contract.

Balin had clearly forgotten it.

Hm. Should he return it? Well, the dwarves would be needing it for when they should employ their new burglar, wouldn´t they? Their burglar that would be _not_ afraid of an adventure, that would go on the quest, steal from the dragon, see to it that those boys were kept in line – and fed! - would sit near the king every night and possibly put braids in his - 

Bilbo dropped the spoon that had been stirring his tea.

Braids.

Nope.

~ ~ ~ ~

“Mister Bilbo! Where are you off to?!”

~ ~ ~ ~

The flabbergasted inhabitant of Hobbition, who had been humming to himself while lovingly tending to his plants, was left to stare after the hobbit that was running down the lane as if hot in pursuit of -

Someone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There. The final part. If you will turn your eyes upwards to where it now reads "series" I will be most obliged to you - it will, hopefully, spare me any further accusations of heartbreak etc. I have learned that I am horribly easily influenced and only need one or two little pushes to change my mind and come up with a beginning for a continuation. Fine. We´ll do this. *gulp* I have no idea how my style of writing is supposed to go with certain things that canon says are going on during the quest but you´ll all be able to blame any failings there on those who took to emotionally blackmailing me so... ;)
> 
> If you´re still with this was-really-meant-to-be-a-two-parter of mine THANK YOU for reading and enjoying it enough to stick with it, it means a lot to me. I hope the next part will live up to any expectations. <3

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This is written solely for personal enjoyment, none of the characters are owned by me.


End file.
